Fading
by Pearcem
Summary: With every passing day, what they had was slowly fading away. Clary, spiraling downwards and looking desperately for a trace of the boy she fell in love with, tries to grin and bear the pain. Jace, trying to find the much too blurred line between his life and job, knows he isn't deserving of someone so beautiful and fragile, yet he loves her with a fierce, selfish passion anyways.
1. Silence

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

 **June 6th, 2017  
** It's been a while since I started writing this story and I haven't been writing much lately. Whether you are re-reading this story, or reading it for the first time, I want you all to know if you don't know/can't tell by the end of the story, that the story you are about to read came from a me that did not recognize this relationship as **_toxic and abusive and downright unhealthy_**. It came from a 12/13 year-old me. A me that was in a bad place. None of those facts excuse this relationship. I should never have romanticized it in the first place. It is awful the way that Jace treats Clary. The way that Clary can treat Jace. When I started writing this, they were only supposed to be fighting, going through a rough spot. In trying to amp up the angst, the drama, I lost sight of that and it turned into something ugly that people DID point out to me: they told me it was abusive, toxic, all around _bad_. I didn't understand why, really. I ignored it.

I know better now.

So be warned, this story glamuorizes abusive relationships, and I plan to change that - edit it this - when I get the time.

* * *

It sounds corny, trust me, I know. But I fell in love with my worst enemy, my most hated villain. The boy who had made countless - _countless_ \- redhead jokes, snickering as I walked past him in the hall. It's not like I could just ignore him, either, because he was everywhere, and was all anyone was ever talking about.

The boy that was gold. Utterly, purely gold. His hair, his eyes, - his _eyes_ \- his skin. He oozed confidence from every orifices on his body, and why shouldn't he? Every girl besides myself would have been willing to kiss the ground he walked on if he did something as simple as flash them a plastered smile. He was so fake - so plastic that the light shining down on him almost blinded me, something more than a few people mistook for some sort of perfection, I suppose. It wasn't hard to brand him as perfect; he looked like the next version of the _Ken doll_ , just waiting to be packaged.

He was far from the perfect label that was stamped on his forehead.

Most people didn't notice the way his golden eyes were hard and cold, the way he would instantly harden at the mention of family. But I did, and something about it always bothered me no matter how hard I tried to shut him out.

* * *

The house felt cold when I entered it. Not just cold- _cold_ from the weather, cold like lacking affection and warmth of feeling. You wouldn't believe that it was my home, would you? Especially not with everything immaculately clean and neat.

"Jace?" I call out.

No answer came from the evidently empty house. I still don't know why I expected him to be here - he never seemed to be. I looked down wistfully at my ring finger. The gold caught what little light was left to shine through the uncovered windows, the diamond casting a strange pattern across the blank wall. I was suddenly - not to mention weirdly - longing for high school, when I couldn't go anywhere without being surounded with his presence, whether he was there or not.

I sighed, placing my keys on the bench. They made a jingling sound, the only noise in the utterly bleak silence. Would there ever _not_ be silence surounding me?

I could remember the first time he was gone for so long, I had thought he left me, that he was never coming back. I had cried out all of my tears that night. He came back a few days later though, promising me never to leave for that long again. _Yeah, sure_. Another broken promise. Another promise I had craved so desperately to be real, to be - _solid_. They never would be, and I knew it, I was just grabbing at a thining thread, sure to break away and leave me drowning in everything.

The only thing keeping me from leaving is as simple as three words: I love him.

Shrugging off my jacket, I make my way to our bedroom. It's where all my paints that aren't at the studio stay. The paint brushes are worn, the paint that once adorned the wooden handle gone or going. The small calluses on my hands could tell anyone how much I love my work. I stand at the bottom of the staircase, staring scrutinizingly at the blank, white wall that looks so...hopelessly boring. He hates it when I get paint on the floor, not to mention the wall, but he isn't here, so what will he say?

Using some black paint, I begin to paint the outline of a man's silhouette. The brush glides smoothly cross the drywall, and all I can think about how angry Jace will be with me. The thought causes a small smirk to creep up on my face. Really, it's the only way he'll say anything to me when he _is_ here. And, I may or may not like to get on his nerves.

The next thing I know, the New York skyline is being painted behind the man. It probably came from the spectacular view out of our window. You can just see the last of the sun sinking below the horizon, you have to get just the right angle, though, looking through the spaces in between certain buildings to see it.

I'm so focused on the brush gliding across the satisyingly smooth drywall that I didn't hear the door open, or his footsteps until I feel his eyes on me. It's a strange feeling - having someone else in the house, considering I've been alone in it so long.

I turn around, eyes widening in surprise. He's staring at me, the last of the New York sun catching his golden eyes somehow. He always has that sort of luck, where the universe works in his favour to make him look more attractive than he already does. It's unfair in every possible way, and I couldn't care less at the moment.

My painting forgotten, I run into his arms, dropping my paint-coated brush on the floor somewhere in between. His strong arms wrapping around me. It feels as if its an automatic response, as he squeezes me tightly, afraid that I'll slip away from him. "You're back," I breathe.

"Of course I am."

I don't even have to think when he crashes his lips to mine. It's like muscle memory. I tangle my hands in his golden curls, his hands easily find my waist and I'm pulled even closer to him.

It's as I think about how he's been gone so long without so much as a word of goodbye that I quickly pull away from him. He's breathing heavy and his pupils are dilated, almost completely engulfed by the black. I can't look at him any longer or I'll feel lonely again, see in his eyes all the time he's left me for work. I hastily turn away, spining in my socks to face the wall once more. Despite the number of people in the world that would kill just to be this close to him, I couldn't bear it.

"How was your trip?" I ask, staring at the half-finished mural.

"Long," he sighs, and I can just picture him running his hands through his hair, messing it even more. I find it strange that he has yet to notice my...project. Normally, we'd have already been in a screaming match about it.

"Why don't you go and get some sleep?" I ask softly, suddenly, I don't _want_ him to see my painting, I don't _want_ to fight with him right now. I myself feel drained from working long hours at the studio, trying to keep my mind occupied. I couldn't tell you how many times I've fallen asleep there in the past two-and-a-half weeks, paint brush in hand - or even on my palette. He yawns, a sure indication he is tired, yet he says,"I'm not tired."

I scoff, rolling my eyes at the wall. "I'm sure you aren't."

He's always been one of those people that are grouchy when they're tired, so it doesn't surprise me when he snaps, suddenly angry with me. "I'm not tired," his voice sharp and piercing. He fixes me with a glare that should have had me lying dead on the floor, skin cold and without the privilleage of a heart beat. Instead, though, I fix him with my own glare, each of us challening the other.

I'm not in the mood for fighting anymore, while I had been not two hours ago. I feel utterly drained, like I could curl up on the hardwood and sleep. "Okay," I sigh. "Do whatever you want." _You always do, anyways_.

I could tell by the look in his eyes he was thinking hard about what I'd said, that he didn't know how to respond. Instead of replying, he simply turns, grabbing his bags from where they lay on the floor, and taking them upstairs.

* * *

I'm up early the next morning, my phone screen flashing brightly in my eyes; _6:34 a.m_. I know I won't be able to go back to sleep, so I instead vouch for getting up from where I must have fallen asleep last night: on the floor, purple paint covering half of my left thigh. I can't help but groan at how hard paint is to get out of clothes, knowing that I won't bother with it, anyways.

I know Jace isn't up yet. He doesn't do mornings, not anymore. Especially not when he comes back from a show. There's no need to wake him, I think; I'm only going to the studio.

* * *

The large windows give way to the early morning light dawning on New York, where taxi drivers are already proceeding to honk at each other. It's comforting, in a sense, mostly because I've been hearing the same noises all my life, but still. My attention drifts to the large canvas in the centre of the room. It's not even half way done, not by a long shot, but from what is there, I can't help but stare. I can't believe its _my_ work. I never thought I'd be as good at painting as my mom, but here I am. I can't help but thinking about how if she were still living in New York, she would love the studio, the endless supply of paints, every size of brush imaginable.

Shaking the saddening thoughts from my head, I turn on the radio, cranking the volume; no one is here to hear it at seven in the morning, anyways.

I squeeze some fresh paint onto my well-used palette, dipping the fine-tipped brush into the gold colour. It's almost the same colour as Jace's eyes, but not the same. Never the same. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find that exact shade of gold? Well don't bother trying to find out how hard it is, because I'm going to tell you: it's impossible - the colour simply _doesn't exist_.

I find it very easy to get lost in my own head when I'm doing art. It's just so...peaceful. Just like the night before, I don't hear the footsteps, I don't hear the door opening and closing. "Clary, what are you doing?" Simon asks me, staring wide-eyed at the large canvas in front of me. "Isn't it, like, I don't know - eight in the morning?"

I laughed at him, trying to hide the fear pushing it's way up my throat. Fear of what? Fear that he'll know Jace is back. Simon has never liked Jace, or Jace Simon. The thing is, though, Simon knows me, he picks up on the smallest of details, the slightest shift in my behaviour that tells him something is off. Frankly, it scares me sometimes. "I couldn't sleep," I reply simply, shrugging my shoulders.

"You never get up this early," Simon muses, putting down a brown paper bag that he had been holding in his left hand, his keys to the studio in the other. I can smell the delicious aroma spawning from his brown paper bag and all I can think is _food_ , as my stomach growls. Simon chuckles, opening up the bag, proceeding to pull out a bagel with cream cheese. He's about to give me half, jsut as he always does, whn his body freezes suddenly. "You never get up this early, not unless Jace is back." His eyes narrow accusingly at me.

I shrink under Simon's scrutinizing gaze. "He only got back last night," I defend myself.

Simon opens his mouth to reply, when the door opens again. In comes a tornado of raven hair and heels. She smiles, but it quickly falters when she notices our expressions. "What did I miss? It's only -" she looks down at her phone, "eight-oh-two."

"Jace is home," I offered weakly. Isabelle frowns, looking down at her phone before tapping away furiously. "How did I _not_ know?" She demands. "I'm his publicist, for God's sake!"

I shrug lamely in response. I want to give her more of an answer, I really do, the only problem is that I don't _know_. Jace likes to keep his business strictly _his_ business. Apparently that also means his wife doesn't get to know, either.

"That boy," Isabelle mutters somewhat angrily.

"Iz, take it easy," Simon says, gently pulling the phone from her grasp. "I'm sure that if he had ruined his image - in the twelve hours you haven't talked to him - we'd already knw about it. Don't you think?"

Isabelle sighs, sinking down onto the black leather couch by the windows. "I suppose," she rubs her temples. "I can't trust him - you know that as well as I do, Clary," she looks up at me expectantly. All I can do though is stare at her, tears threatening to spill over. I don't know what hurt more: the fact that my friends thought of Jace that way or the fact that on some level, I did too. I knew my friends didn't trust Jace, that they thought so little of him, but they had never out-right admitted it before - not to my face, at least.

Isabelle's dark eyes widen, her eyebrows shooting upwards. "Oh, no - Clary, I didn't mean that - I just - I meant -" she bites her lip, looking back at Simon, her panicked expression is visible to me, I'd bet that she hadn't meant me to see it, or hear what she'd said.

"What Izzy means is, that, well -" Simon started, stopping himself. He looked cornered, like even he - who hadn't said anything about Jace, just rather implied it - didn't know what to do to fix Isabelle's words. You know what they say, _loose lips sink ships_ , though in this case, the ship is Jace and I's relation _ship_ , while the loose lips are that of Isabelle and Simon.

He sighs, sinking to the floor, where he'd been crouched in front of me, burying his face in his hands. "Clary, you _knew_ what you were getting into when you married him."

"No," Isabelle interjected sharply, her eyebrows scrunched together in determination. "She didn't. He wasn't this - this _person_ before."

He _had_ been so different when we first got married five years ago. Of course, that was before he was so famous that he couldn't go out without being swarmed by paparazzi and fans. Before he turned into some kind of robot that did whatever his manager told him to.

Isabelle sits down beside me on the stiff leather couch, using her thumb to gently wipe away the tears that had spilled over without my consent. "Please don't cry," Isabelle pleads, her voice barely above a whisper. "You know I didn't mean it - he loves you so much, Clare."

No matter how sincere she sounds, no matter how many times I turn it over in my mind, I can't bring myself to believe her. And it sucks.

* * *

"You can get going, if you want," I tell Simon, as I clean my brushes, moving around the bristles to get all the paint out as warm water flows from the faucet.

"No, Iz is working until a little later, anyways."

"Working?" I ask in disbelief, turning to look at him, checking to see if he's joking.

"Yeah, working. She's in a meeting with Jace's management, or something." _And Jace_. For what he lacks in relationship skills, he more than makes up for in work.

"Oh," I say stupidly. I hadn't known he'd be working late tonight - his meetings always ran late - of course, he never tells me anything. The thought sends a mixture of sadness and anger through me. On one side, I wonder why he wouldn't tell me - his wife - that he was working tonight, on the other side, I'm angry with him. Angry that he's gone most of the time, angry that he never tells me he's going, angry that he never tells me anything.

What kind of happy, healthy relationship functionned like this?

None, that's how many. Absolutley none of them.

* * *

I nearly fell asleep at the studio five times. It was then that I decided I'd take Simon up on his offer to drive me home. "Night, Clary," he waves as I stumble sleepily out of the passenger side door. I wave back, rubbing at one of my eyes, yawning loudly.

It took me about four tries to get the door unlocked, each time before I just ended up stabbing the metal of the door. The house was usually silent, eerily so, but I could hear the soft strummings of a guitar though the lights were off. What were we, vampires?

Normally, I would call out into the emptiness of the house, just to find - unsurprisingly - that there was no one else home. Tonight, I don't feel the need to. Instead, I take the stairs two at a time, walking to the end of the hall until I push open our bedroom door. The house was so big, and for only two people. What had Jace ever thought we'd need the space for? He didn't want kids as far as I knew - not that we'd ever talked about it - and relatives hardly, if ever, came to visit, considering most of our relatives lived right here, in New York.

I don't have the energy to change, falling face-first into the soft bed. Kicking off my shoes, I crawl further up the bed, hugging a pillow. Even though I know he isn't there, I reach out for Jace, wanting him to hold me closely as he used to. I can still hear the soft strumming of his guitar until it slowly fades out, and I hear a door closing along with a set of feet shuffling down the hall. I thought that since he knew I was home he'd just walk right past the bedroom, but I don't think he knows I'm here, because the door opens creakily, and he slips inside.

Within a few long beats, I feel the bed sink down beside me. After a few more long, torturous beats of holding my breath, I hear his soft snores. He hadn't even acknowledged me.

* * *

 **Alright! Another new story, I hope you guys liked it and that it was okay? It's the first time I'm doing an entire story in first-person. What do you guys think? Should I keep writing, or...?**

 **I know, I know. They are slightly OOC, but I'm trying to fix that, I just needed to write the first chapter like this. Good? Good.**


	2. Look Away

It still hurt, like tiny splinters poking at my heart. I would have even been okay with a simple, "goodnight." I fall second to work _and_ sleep, which only adds to the hurt. I just lay on my back, staring listlessly at the white ceiling. White _everything_. You wouldn't even know I lived here unless you saw the rather large mural on the wall that Jace has yet to notice - or if he has, he has chosen to ignore it; to ignore _me_.

Jace's snoring quiets and I think for a second that he might be awake. He's done that quite a few times now, and none of those times has he woken up, just mumbled something and turned the in the opposite direction. Instead of looking to see if he's opened his eyes, I just lay there. I feel just - it's an impossible feeling to describe. It's like being lonely and forgotten but all rolled together with a bunch of other emotions that fuel the fire that triggers the hurt, and the sadness, and the anger.

"I thought you'd be at work." No, _goodmorning_. Did he even care?

"And I thought you'd be sleeping for longer."

He remains silent, and I think that for once, just once, I've beaten Jace with the one thing he knows how to use just right to win anything: words. That is, until he says, "sorry for the inconvenience."

Despite the fact that I want so desperately to say _something_ , _anything_ , I keep my mouth shut. The only thing on my mind is these three words: _you're not sorry_.

I peel back the nauseatingly white covers, standing up as I pull my unruly hair back. There's small pieces of oil paint stuck in it, and I know it'll be hell to get out later but I can't will myself to care. I'm still wearing my clothes from yesterday, complete with paint splatters and a big patch of bright orange on my calf. It doesn't bother me, in fact, I think it makes my clothes look better, but I can just _tell_ that the neat freak in Jace is having a panic attack at the sight, urging him to rid my clothes of paint.

"Stop," I say, refusing to meet his gaze.

"Stop what?" He asks, feinging innocence.

"Stop staring at me like I'm a stain on the carpet that your inner-neat-freak needs to get rid of." With that, I stalked from the room, bounding down the stairs. I wanted to yell and to scream at him - I know I did - but it didn't seem like the best choice at the moment.

My keys were exactly where I left them, on the floor next to my shoes. I could see them from where I stood at the bottom of the staircase, the light shining on them sending a sharp glare my way. It was so tempting to just pick them up and leave. Leave my problems - leave Jace. But then there was that infuriating part of my brain that told me I'd be miserable if I left, that I'd never find anyone quite like the man upstairs. No matter how amazing the men I dreampt up seemed, none of them were real, but he was. I knew he loved me, but the thread was thinning. And fast.

You probabaly have no idea how hard it is to fully trust someone who has girls throwing themselves at him - _prettier_ girls, _smarter_ girls, _richer_ girls - all of them better than me in some way or another. It was hard to measure up, and I was scared. Scared that one day he'd realize that there was someone out there that was better than me - in _every_ way - and he'd leave. For good.

Just _thinking_ about it, tears were threatening, my hands were shaking ever so slightly. I could only imagine if I tried to speak. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I walk numbly over to the kitchen. The coffee machines glares evilly at me, the bright bed buttons daring me to try and use it. I still don't understand why the thing hates me, but every time I try to use it, it spews hot coffee and milk _every_ where. Stupid thing.

"Come on," I mumble to it, proding the black plastic tentatively. After a few minutes of staring at the hateful machine, I resigned to sitting on the bench, feeling more confused than I have in a long time. How did I get back the man I married? I don't think I can, and that's what bothers me.

"You're not working today, I take it." The voice startles me from my deep thoughts. Speak of the devil.

"Yeah," I say quietly. "It's Saturday, I don't typically work Saturdays. Not that you'd know." He doesn't reply, just keeps walking, further into the kitchen. He only stops when he's standing on the opposite side of the bench - his golden hair is tusseled and his golden eyes aren't exactly complimented by the dark circles under them.

"I'm sorry," he sighs. I meet his eyes, reluctantly though. I know I'll cave, I'm weak for his eyes. "I know I've been gone a long time and..." he trails off.

I shake my head, holding my tongue. So many things I _want_ to say, that I _should_ say - that I _should've_ said a long time ago. Maybe he'll realize things on his own, just maybe. "It's fine," I muster up a soft smile.

Jace frowns. "Isn't always that when people say they're fine, they aren't?"

I push up from where I sit on the bench, sliding down, down, until my feet touch the floor. "I guess you'll have to figure that part out on your own."

He clears hs throat. "I'm going to go out on a limb here, and say you're not 'fine'."

I shrug. "Maybe not, but it's alright." I don't want to talk about this, I realize, because that means admitting out loud the failure that _is_ our marriage. I'm already walking towards the front door, tightening my pony-tail when Jace curses under his breath. "It's not alright, Clary! Why won't you talk to me?" His anger is bubbling over, I know it, and it won't be pretty, either.

I whip around, furious with him. What gave _him_ the right to be angry in thi situation? If anything, I should be angry with him; he's the one whose never telling me anything! "Excuse me if I don't want to talk about the ever-crumbling structure of our marriage!" I shoot back. My face is heating up with anger, tears threatening to spill over at any given moment. I refuse to stay and listen to whatever he's going to say next, slipping on my shoes and grabbing my keys, one jabbing my hand in the process. I pull open the front door, almost instantly I'm being blinded with flashing lights, people crowding around me.

I don't _want_ to listen to what they're saying, but it's all I can hear. "Trouble in paradise?" One of them sneers, his greasy-looking hair is combed back from his face, exposing his unflatteringly sharp cheekbones and scruffy jaw.

"I can see the headliness now!" Another one exclaims over the crowd of vultures. I push through them - it's nothing I haven't dealt with before. My car is just a little further, and I can't get in fast enough, the leather seat is cold against my back, despite the shirt in between myself and said seat. The camera's are still flashign wildly around me as I buckle my seatbelt, pushing a single key into the ignition and turning until I hear the relieving revving of the engine. Luckily, the paparazzi are smart enough to get out of my way. I'm not saying I would've run over them, but I was tempted. _Tempted_.

I curse under my breath, realizing I left my phone in the bedroom. It looks to me as if Isabelle and Simon will be recieving an surprise visit from me this not-so-fine morning.

* * *

Simon and Isabelle have a nice house, but the fact that it's all the way on the other side of the city is fairly inconvient. I sit in my car, staring up at the two-story house, smaller than my own, but seriously - who needs a gigantuous three-story house that they could go days without seeing the other person in? Jace, evidently.

The winter air is biting as I exit my car, cutting through my thin-for-winter clothes like knives. I can see a faint light through the curtains hanging over the front window. They've got to be up; there is no sleep for those with kids.

Snow gets caught in my hair on my way up to their front door, some in my eyelashes as well, slightly impairing my vision. I knock lightly at first, and when there's no answer I knock harder this time. I mean like _kicking_ the door hard. Because that is what I did: I kicked the door. Simon answers the door a few minutes later, as I impatiently tap my foot on the threshold. His brown hair is disheveled and his eyes are decorated with blue-purple cresents. They were hardly noticable under his somewhat thick glasses. "Clary?" He squints at me.

"Simon, lovely to see you! It's been too long, may I come in? Thanks," I say as I slip past him and into his house.

He barely has the time to get out, "wait, w-what?" before I'm inside, basking in the glorious heat wrapping around me like a blanket.

"Clary!" I hear a moment before someone grabs hold of my leg, squeezing it tightly with their small hands. I smile down at Max, Isabelle and Simon's son. He has glasses like Simon, hiding the majority of his small face, not to mention the dark brown hair that hangs down in his face more often than not. He might as well just be a clone of Simon at age four.

"Hi, Max," I bend down to his level. "Can you show me where Mommy is?" He nods eagerly, tugging my hand, urging me to follow him down the hall and up the stairs. I'm vaguely aware of Simon following a few paces behind, muttering under his breath.

"Mommy's in there," he points at the gray door, bouncing on the bare heels of his feet. I smile at him once more, "thank you, Max." I stand back up, frowning to Simon. "Why is she in there?"

"She hasn't been feeling well," he rubs the back of his neck almost sheepishly. I'm not sure what to say so instead I turn around to face the door.

"Why don't you go watch cartoons?" Simon suggests softly to his son. I see Max noding out of the corner of my eye, his expression a dead giveaway that he doesn't _really_ want to "go watch cartoons."

I push open the door, only to fiind that Isabelle is laying under a heap of blankets. "Izzy?" She groans, burying herself more into the mattress. She lifts her head, looknig curiously at me. "I thought you'd be at home with Mr. Rockstar?"

I bite my lip. "That's kind of what I'm here to talk to you about." That's all it takes to get her out of bed; she shakes off the blankets, pushing her inky hair hastily out of her face. Even without makeup, Izzy is gorgeous.

"Girl talk, Si - out," she orders, pointing to the door.

"She's my friend, too -" he begins, stopping when Isabelle shots him a warning look. "Fine," he grumbles, shutting the door on his way out. Isabelle pats the spot on the bed next to her.

"Now," Isabelle says in her motherly-tone. "What happened?"

I groan. I don't want to talk about this, yet here I am, sitting in Isabelle's bedroom _knowing_ I need to. "I kind of may or may not have got angry and told him I didn't want to talk about the 'ever crumbling structure of our marriage'." I cringe at my words, only now I _really_ let it sink in how harsh they were, even when I wasn't angry.

"Oh, _ouch_." Was all Isabelle said, her, too, cringing at my words.

"I know," I say, burying my face in my small hands. "I'm the worst wife in the history of wives!" Okay, I sound more than a little dramatic, but that's exactly how I feel. Neither of us are willing to talk to the other and it makes things so much more complicated than need be.

Isabelle is rubbing small circles, up and down my back. Up and down. Repeat. "Clary," she sighed. "I don't know what to tell you other than you two need to work some things out, like, soon. And I mean _soon_ , as in _soon_ \- as in _today-soon_."

"You're right, Iz, but he just - he's never fully... _there_ , if that makes any sense whatsoever." I slump in discouragement. Maybe there was nothing left to salvage. Maybe, I just had this false idea that there was. Maybe, we were too far gone, too detached to be fixable.

* * *

I sat in my car for a good, solid five minutes before getting out and unlocking the front door. It didn't creak as I entered, so it looked as though I will have to be the one to announce my presence, not the sometimes-squeaky doorframe. I reluctantly make my way up the stairs, hearing the beginnings of a song from the hallway.

I've never heard it, I know that much from the melody, I'm too far away to hear the lyrics though.

I pushed open the door to the room. It is like Jace's music room, I suppose, because it's where he went most of the time when he wanted to play. Plus, there is kind of a piano in there, collecting dust. Because my Husband is never home to use it, and I cannot play for the life of me.

"Jace?" I say softly, almost praying he doesn't hear me so he keeps playing his guitar. I never get to hear him play anymore. I don't think he heard me over the gradually increasing volume of his playing, so I say again, this time with more volume, "Jace."

He looks up, his fingers freezing on the strings. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean what I said. I was just - I was just angry. I hope you know that." I'm leaning heavily on the doorframe, as I wait for his reaction. He remains stoic for a moment, as if frozen in time, so I stare down at my shoes. I hadn't even realized it this morning when I stormed out, but I am wearing my very old, very beat-up green sneakers.

I didn't notice him put down his guitar, or stand up for that matter. But my head was being lifted, his hands on either side of my face. "Clary," he sighs. I lift my eyes to meet his own, I don't want him to see the truth swirling in my eyes, the sadness that resides there. I've heard once or twice that the eyes are the windows to the soul, the question was: would Jace see through said windows?

"Jace," I mock. Not the best time for my personality to bud in, but, it's me. I can't help it. His golden eyes dance with amusement. He hasn't said anything in reply, but his lips have slowly made their way closer to my own, as he moves to close the gap between us, I don't fight it; I don't fight _him_. I'm sick of fighting.

His lips meet mine once more, his hand slipping under my shirt, further, further. He hoists me up, and I hook my legs around his waist as he walks down the hallway.

* * *

I pull the phone from his hands, leaving him staring down stupidly at the air in front of him. He looks up at me, accusingly. "Huh?" I ask innocently, pocketing the phone.

"You stole my phone!" He exclaims.

"Me? I simply took away the device that occupies a good twenty-three hours of your day," I defend, hoisting myself up onto the bench, looking down at him - for _once_.

He scoffs at me, the corners of his mouth kicking up. "What do you want to eat?" He asks, staring up at me. I shrug. "I'll eat anything that hasn't been anywhere in Izzy's general area."

He laughs, a sweet, melodic sound that fills the empty house if not for only a few seconds. It's now I realize that even with the two of us here, it's so _lonely_. I look down at my hands, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. "What - what's wrong?" Jace asks, worry lacing his voice.

"Nothing," I shake my head. "I'll get over it."

"'Get over' _what_?" Jace prompts.

"It's just seems so lonely here with only the two of us. Too big." I shrug half-heartedly, one shoulder goes up while the other is too lazy.

There's something in his eyes, like he's trying to decide on some life-changing decision. I'm not sure quite what, because there is no hidden meaning behind my words, if that's what he's thinking.

"How does a movie sound?" He asks finally after a few long beats.

"Great. How about not starving?" I try to raise an eyebrow, both going up instead. (I cannot, for the life of me, raise just _one_.) Jace chuckles. "You pick the movie, I'll order." It's the usual; the system we had somehow worked out when he was around more. I nod, padding over to the couch, flicking on the television.

"...rumours circulating regarding Jace Herondale and wife - Clary Herondale, who was seen storming from their house early this morning." I stop searching for a film to watch, not per-say captivated in the television show, just...interested, I suppose. "There are plenty of pictures to back up the story, but whether or not there is trouble in paradise, we can't say.

"At his last show only a few days ago, in Los Angeles, pictures were captured of a blonde-haired boy, said to be our favourite rockstar and a brunette with whom he was getting very cozy with at popular night club, _Pandemonium_."

I want to stop listening, to look away, but I can't. The words are like poison seeping through my veins, slowing, but surely, killing me. My brain is screaming: _look away!_

"This reporter can't say for sure, but if there's trouble in paradise between our heartthrob and his leading lady, my bet is that it sprouts from these photos," the reporter smirks to the camera, almost like she knows I'm watching. "We'll be back," she says and then a commercial starts to play. I'm left to stand there stupidly staring at the screen as a _Ziploc_ commercial plays. Was that _my_ Jace? Could it really have been him?

I had subconsciously brought my hand up to my mouth to stop any noise from escaping me - not that I can make any noise, considering I'm not breathing.

I try to tell myself that there's no actual proof, that the photos are grainy and severely lacking in quality, but I'm only feeding myself a lie. The photos were by no definition lacking in quality, though they were a bit grainy, they showed someone with shockingly similar golden hair getting more than friendly with some girl. It's making me doubt his supposed love and devotion, again, and it's only been two days since he got home.

I would rather him not acknowledge me when I get home for weeks -years, even - on end over this. I don't feel the tears when they begin to pour down my cheeks, I only feel the painful beats of my heart. Needles tearing holes in my heart. Every breath I suck in, it beats faster, the pain intensifies. I'm reduced to nothing but pain and questions. It might not even be him, for all I know, but with the rotten luck I've been having lately...I don't know.

I remain silent, focused on the television screen as it once again shows the smug-looking reporter. "Jace Herondale caught in a cheating scandal? Let's take a closer look at these photos." The screen shifts to the picture of best quality, the reporter is talking, but all I can focus on is the hidden face attached to the golden hair.

Whatever progress Jace and I had made tonight had just been completely wiped away, by a single photo. I look down at my left hand, staring confusedly at the two rings; my engagement ring and wedding band. Did he love me?

* * *

 **Wow, heavy stuffy near the end. Totally wasn't planning on that, but, hey, don't worry; I've got a plan all worked out now.**

 **dana102: I'm glad you like it.**

 **Christinatewart: I hope you were able to handle the pain in this chapter :)**

 **gabergirl: Malec might not happen anytime soon, sorry to disappoint.**

 **chesire15: I agree with you there, Clary definitely deserves more than she is getting.**

 **Smiles Burn In The Styx: I honestly never believed I had the power to make anyone cry with my writing, but maybe. I agree with you; HOLY, indeed. I surprised myself with the ending of this chapter.**

 **blossom146: I'm going to apologize in advance if the updates take longer, but I really liked hearing you enjoyed. :)**

 **Galindanot: Phew! I'm happy that you like the first person (because in all honesty, I thought writing in first person would suck, and that no on would like it.)**

 **BookFanatic7: It is very much a Clace story, and I hope to give them a happy ending.**

 **Luvmortalinstruments: Hope this satisfied your craving for more. ;)**

 **jessilee1027: The direction of the story took a major twist this chapter, I think, anyways. Hope you like said twist.**

 **pianoheart: Wow, thank you so much for the review. I love to get reviews like your own.**

 **colorful565: I have faith too. Let's hope it isn't misplaced, because of what I did this chapter.**

 **: Honestly, I'm not sure whether or not I want this to be in the same world as "My Ghost" just because there is going to be a lot more hurt in this story than there already is in '"My Ghost." It definitely fits, doesn't it. I hadn't even realized that until I read your review, so if you'll excuse me, I need to go and ponder over this idea.**

 **BlackArtWhiteVoice: You saw only the movie? First off - don't mind my opinion - but the movie sucked. The books are much better, I believe you'll find them that way, too. But, I'll give you the incentive to keep with the series. ;)**

 **BlazingCedar: Trust me, Jace is not going to be the bad guy. The bad guy in this story as you'll soon discover is very...hm, how do I describe it? I'm not sure - let me get back to you on that. I'm glad you like all of my stories, I hope I don't disappoint.**


	3. Poison

**Can we get a huge round of applause for my beta iLoveMeSomeCaptainAmerica.**

 **Not only does she write amazing stories, but she's the best beta I've had. *Clapping***

 **IMPORTANT: I RE-EDITED CHAPTER 2, SO GO RE-READ IT IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE NEW EDITS.**

* * *

Did he love me?

It's the one question that won't leave me alone as the television flashes behind me, words going in one ear and out the other. I don't bother wiping my cheeks as tears flow freely. It hurts, it hurts more than my first high school heart-break, more than breaking my arm when I was seven, more than anything.

Jace walks into the living room, looking forward. He doesn't see me first and I want to scream, "Look at me! Look at me!" like a child screaming for attention from their neglectful parent. My hand still covers my mouth as sobs try to break through the pathetic barrier.

He goes still as he looks at me, my face probably red and blotchy, tears everywhere. "What's wrong?" He becomes animated once more. His voice sounds worried, he looks panicked, like there might be an actual threat. He is the threat, I realize.

I shake my head. "You're cheating on me..." I say quietly, admitting it out loud. If possible, it makes the pain worse. Now that I've said it, it's real. This is real, this is happening. Jace places a hand on my waist, bending down to look my directly in the eyes. "You're cheating on me?!" I squeak, my voice much higher than I would've liked.

He furrows his brows at me. "What?"

I push him away, looking at him with wide eyes filled with tears already spilling over. "Don't touch me!" I shriek through the devastation, my voice thick with tears.

He looks like a kicked puppy and it's like someone has stepped on my already-broken heart.

I turn away, leaving the room. I can't be in the same room as him, I just can't. I don't know where I'm going to go, but I feel this need to be away from him, like an invisible force pushing me to move away. I'm nearly to the front door when Jace grabs my wrist. I whip around to face him. "Clary, what did I—" He stops short when I pull on my arm with every ounce of force I can muster. Of course, he doesn't budge, because I am tiny in comparison.

"Let me go!" I shout. I know it doesn't sound scary coming from someone as small as myself, the freckles and fire-red hair don't help my case, but it's all I've got.

"I don't understand—" Jace protests, raking his hands through is golden hair. I, again, stare down at my ring finger. A tear drips down, landing on my wedding band.

I don't know how to reply, instead, I do something I never thought I'd do: I take off my rings, slamming them down on the table. Jace freezes, staring down at the rings, his vision shifting between myself and the circular pieces of gold. I make another decision. I slid on my beat-up sneakers, throwing open the front door. I walk outside into the bitter winter air, and instantly, I realize my stupidity: I have no jacket, no car keys, no money.

I have nothing.

* * *

Jace had tried to follow me but I ran, and ran, and ran. I ran until my legs hurt and my lungs burned despite the cool air I was breathing. I hadn't had the slightest idea where I was running to when I started out, but apparently my sub-conscious had already worked out a plan, because I was walking down the street, towards Isabelle and Simon's house.

I wrap my arms around my waist, teeth chattering, as I try desperately to maintain any semblance of heat. My hair is full of small, white flecks, and my cheeks burning as the bitter air hits them.

I can't describe the feeling I had when Izzy and Simon's house came into view. As I knock on the front door, nearly freezing to death, I feel the sadness washing over me again. Not even the warm air that gushes out across my skin when Isabelle opens the door registers as my lip quivers. She looks pityingly at me. I completely lose it, loud sobs escaping me, small gasping noises as I struggle to take full breaths.

Izzy pulls me into her arms and I lay my head against the uncomfortably soft knit of her sweater, hot torrents of grief tearing through me. She holds me for what could be hours, what could be minutes, whispering the same thing over and over in my ear; "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." The thinning thread has finally broken, I think, I have finally broken.

* * *

They think I can't hear them whisper-shouting at each other just down the hall. They think I don't hear them say I'm broken. They don't feel my pain, like poison slowly killing it's victim. I can't believe I didn't realize how toxic our relationship was before. No wife should have to constantly worry about whether or not her husband is going to come home to her, feel the emptiness I did—and still do.

All those times Isabelle said little things about Jace, and I let them slide. I should have listened more closely, heeded her warnings. Everyone could see it, while I was so blind. So stupid.

"I want you to know you're welcome here as long as you need." The voice is Isabelle's; I recognize it, I just can't...focus on anything, really. My throat hurts, and my chest feels heavy. I still feel cold, inside and out, no matter how high they crank the heat.

I feel so betrayed, so empty, so used. So shattered beyond repair.

* * *

For two weeks, I sit at the top of the stair banister, listening as my husband comes to the door, pleading to see me. I'm not sure what I feel, and it's so frustrating.

For two weeks, I live with Simon and Isabelle. I've been here enough times, but it is not the cold-lacking-in-feeling-house I've spent a good five-and-a-half-years in.

For two weeks, I sulk, wearing one of Isabelle's sweaters. It's white, and warm, not to mention huge on my petite frame, like I'm wearing a dress. My bottom lip is red and raw from my worrying at it.

"Clary, you can't sit around and cry all the time," Isabelle rubbed my back. I think it's supposed to be soothing, but for whatever reason, it put me on edge.

I shrug my shoulders lamely, attempting a smile. "Pretty please?"

Isabelle groans. "No, Clarissa. I won't allow any further sulking in my house!" She falls back on the bed, her raven hair splaying out around her.

"Let the poison sink in, Iz, let it leave it's mark," I mutter. The poison sank in the first day I had shown up at Izzy's, but I don't feel ready to face the real world. The world where —somehow —everyone knows about me and my personal life.

"It left a mark, alright." Isabelle sat up again, looking sadly at me. I stand up, wrapping my arms around my waist. Isabelle's expression turns to a frown, her head falling to one side. "Where are your rings?" She points to my left hand just as I try to hide it from her. It's too late, and now I have to explain.

"I left them at the house...after, kind of, slamming them onto a table..." I trail off. I had every right to do it, too. Isabelle's expression is unreadable. "You saw all that—all that...stuff," I whisper, playing with the hair elastic around my wrist. "How can I still call myself his wife?"

"Oh, babe," Isabelle puts a hand on my shoulder, pulling out her phone as it buzzes in her pocket. She frowns at the screen. "I'm trying to figure everything out, okay?" She gives me a not-so-reassuring smile before departing, leaving me alone.

She is Jace's publicist, if anyone knows what happened it should be Izzy. I feel as though she's holding something back, like she doesn't want to tell me anything. I just can't figure out why.

* * *

It's a horrible plan, I know it is, I just can't help myself. Isabelle and Simon have both gone out. Max is at school, no one is here to witness what I'm about to do: betray my best friend's trust. Kind of.

I hesitantly walk down into the kitchen, cringing when the floor boards creak under my slight weight. Isabelle's laptop is in my sights, sitting innocently on the table. Gingerly, I lift the lid. The screen lights up bright blue and I click on her profile. It's password protected. Damn it. As if a literal light bulb appears above my head, I remember: one day, a few years ago, we were watching season three of American Horror Story. "On Wednesdays we wear black," I had joked. She looked thoughtfully at the screen, "that's my new password—for everything."

It was worth a shot.

"Wow," I mutter as the computer accepts the password. _Literal much, Iz?_

She has all the tabs minimized, and when I click on them, they're all about Jace, Jace, and more—you guessed it—Jace. Hesitantly, I click on the first tab. Some part of me—the part I'm choosing to ignore—is getting a thrill out of this, out of snooping on Isabelle's laptop.

 _Our favourite heartthrob is making headlines again, though this time it's under much worse—and juicier—circumstances. Pictures recently surfaced of a golden-haired boy and a brunette getting very, very cozy in the back of night club, Pandemonium, in Los Angeles._

 _Now, how is the 26 year-olds wife, Clary Herondale, taking this? According to neighbors, our Clary was seen leaving—running from, actually—the house._

 _His publicist released a statement earlier this week, saying that, "NO!"—The golden man in the photo is not Jace, but a teenage boy with a shockingly similar hair colour. (Picture below.)_

 _I, for one, am willing to take his publicist's side on this one. If there is one thing we know for sure about the rockstar, it's that he loves his wife more than the world—having said so in multiple interviews. What do you all think?_

I have the urge to laugh and cry all at once. I scroll down to the picture, and when I see his face, I don't see how I could have ever mistaken him for my Jace. His hair is probably an exact match for Jace's, but his skin is too pale, his eyes a boring dark brown, his mouth but a line across his face.

How could Isabelle keep this from me? How could she not tell me that it wasn't Jace, weren't best friends supposed to tell each other these types of things? At least now I know what my plans for the day are. Hint: it is quite the opposite of sulking in an oversized sweater.

* * *

I officially have a hit list. For two people.

I'm coming for you Lightwood. You, too, Lewis.

"Isabelle Sophia Lightwood!" The receptionist narrows her eyes at me, disgust evident in her expression. She knows who I am—everyone seems to. With her obviously bleached hair, beady black eyes, and makeup caked on so thickly, I wonder how she ever got a job at a place as classy as the Lightwood building. Sure, not very typical that a publicist would work here, such as Isabelle, but her family owns the building.

"Did you have an appointment?" The receptionist glares at me with her beady crow's eyes.

Instead of replying, I head straight down the hallway towards Isabelle's office. "Hey, you can't go back there!" She yells at me, making no move to stop me, though.

"Isabelle Sophia Lightwood!" I bang on her door, "open the door!"

I hear the clacking of heels on the other side of the black door, when it suddenly opens. "Clary?" She looks curiously at me.

"How could you?" I say, walking right into her office. I'm in no mood for manners.

"Alright," Isabelle sighs, crossing her arms over her bright red blouse. "Tell me what this is about."

"It wasn't Jace in those pictures, and you still didn't tell me!" My voice rises a few octaves higher than I would've ever liked to hear.

"Clary, I-I just wanted you to make the decision for yourself. Judging by the way you reacted, you clearly don't trust him." Isabelle purses her lips, shaking her head ever so slightly. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment before opening to reveal dark brown determination. "Tell me you fully trust him, Clary, tell me."

I stare at her, lips parted as I breathe in and out, hoping something will come to mind. I want to tell her I trust him fully, but I can't. Because I don't.

"I can't stand to see what this relationship is doing to you, Clary. Not anymore." Isabelle looks absolutely defeated.

"How do I fix it?" I don't mean for the question to come out, but it does, barely above a whisper. I love him, but this is not what I signed up for–not who I signed up for.

"Well, for starters, I think you really need to make sure you still want to be part of the relationship." Isabelle makes it sound so easy, like the decision won't make or break me. Who am I kidding? I'm already broken.

"I do, Iz, I love him," I bite my lip, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

She nods her head like she already knew what I was going to say. "Secondly, you need to talk to him. Fight all you want with him, Clary, it won't make a difference." I certainly didn't tell her that Jace and I were always at each other's throats when we weren't giving the other the silent treatment.

I force the lump down again.

"I think—I can do that," I nod, trying to reassure myself.

Isabelle smiles encouragingly at me. "I know you can."

I laugh dryly. "When I came here, I had the intentions to kill you, you realize?"

Isabelle rolls her eyes, telling me to leave her to her work. Translation: go talk to Jace.

* * *

 **Lots of reviews for the previous chapter, so here we go.**

 **Luvmortalinstruments: Glad you're enjoying it!**

 **Thegirlwhowritesinthewind: Hehe :)**

 **I'm A Writing Dreamer: Okay, first off, yes, yes I am the devil. Secondly, I am teenage Clace trash. Thirdly yes, I will continue to end chapters at the worst possible moments. (Evil laugh.)**

 **ThatblondeALB: So, I've decided that this is a separate world than My Ghost. Glad you like the story. :)**

 **gabergirl: I couldn't believe I wrote that anymore than you can. Honestly, I wonder where these ideas come from. (Oh, right, the depths of Hell.)**

 **chesire15: Lots of yelling and screaming and the throwing of objects. Soon, my pet, soon. *Strokes cat that magically appears in my lap***

 **: Yes, yes, and yes! I am going to finish every single one of the stories I have published thus far!**

 **BornReddy74: Sometimes I just want to smash Jace in the face and cry at the same time. I'm sure you can relate. ;)**

 **clarissa adele herondale: I hurt you, huh? Just wait until we're a few more chapters into this story. *Cackles***

 **Jia Ming: Clary definitely deserves a lot better. I only hope Jace can give that to her.**

 **colorful565: I appreciate your faith in me, I only hope I don't disappoint.**

 **Page1of365: Glad you like it! :)) Hope you enjoyed this one just as much.**

 **AsraStar: Here's the update you've been wanting!**

 **Guest: Honestly, I have no idea how many chapters this story will be because after this obstacle, there is a few more I want Clace to overcome.**

 **Guest: Aw thank you. I swear on my grave I will continue this story. (Don't hold me to that, I'm already dead.)**

 **Guest: Oh trust me, Jace would be taped to the wall while I throw knives at him - narrowly missing - if I were Clary.**

 **Helen: Glad you love it.**

 **Guest: I think you'll like where I'm taking it.**

 **Guest: I can only hope it'll stay interesting, hope you liked this chapter.**

 **Karol: I was hoping to keep it original, not like anyone else's. (Which is near impossible on this site.)**

 **Lava: I kind of tried to shape the first few chapters after Unconditionally by Katy Perry. ;) And, no, they were not having sex. And, manifestly, after reading this chapter you know Jace is innocent. Well, he might not be soon...Definitely a Clace story.**

 **Guest: What do you mean? (I feel as though I'm being mocked.)**

* * *

 **Thank you everyone for the lovely reviews. 48 already! So many more than I was expecting. So, thank you.**

 **:))**


	4. Nothing New

The door is unlocked. _Honestly, Jace, do you want to get murdered?_

Taking a deep breath, I push it open. It's freezing inside, as if he was hoping to freeze to death while asleep. I kick off my shoes, treading cautiously through the house, acting like someone was going to jump out at me at every turned corner. Although, I wouldn't put it past Jace — if we were on good terms, that is.

The first level is empty, and immaculately clean. Only Jace would clean when he gets upset. I, on the other hand, would more likely throw plates at the walls.

Our bedroom door is wide open, the bed perfectly made, not even a crease in the blanket. I'm about to give up, presuming he isn't home, when I catch a glimpse of his golden hair as I begin to walk further down the hall. He's sitting between the wall and the bed, knees bent, head hanging low, his hands wound into his hair. His grip looks painful, as he mutters something under his breath. He doesn't see me and I know it.

It's now or never.

I walk quietly over to him, sinking down beside him onto the cold floor. Letting out a loud sigh, I say, "Life sucks, doesn't it?" I hope he doesn't pick up on the shakiness in my voice, the sharp intake of breath at the end of my sentence, the gloss-like quality to my eyes.

His body comes alive as if he's been shocked. His golden eyes search frantically around my body, like he doesn't believe I'm real. "Clary?"

"I prefer the Queen, but Clary will do." My voice is still wavering but slightly less than before.

His eyes light up — quite literally — turning a bright, polished gold. He wraps me into an air-depriving embrace. Unlike most people, Jace knows I won't break, that I can take whatever is thrown my way.

He's cute when he's happy.

"I'm sorry, _I'm sorry_ ," he breathes into my neck. I gently rub up and down his back. He keeps repeating the words like a skipping record.

I let out a shaky breath, like I'm about to cry, but I come up dry. He breathes out, as if he's relieved, though I can still feel how tense he is.

"I'm sorry, Clary. I did everything wrong," he shakes his head, pulling away from me. There are bags under his eyes, his hair is messy, and not in that adorable I-just-woke-up way, more like I've-been-agressively-running-my-hands-through-my-hair-because-I'm-stressed-the-freak-out way.

I purse my lips, looking down at the floor. I don't know what to say, and it will only be worse if I look at him; those aureate eyes have the strangest hold over me.

I don't get to stare at the hardwood for long, though, as Jace's gentle, calloused hands bring my face up so that he can stare directly into my eyes. "You deserve so much more," he says softly. "Someone better than me."

"Call me stupid, but I don't want anyone else," I tell him without hesitation and without falter. It's the truest thing I could've said.

His expression is unreadable as he crashes his lips down onto mine. "I don't know why me," he says against my lips, "but I don't deserve you."

* * *

"Jace," I say exasperated with my husband's attempts to hide me away. "I saw it all, it's no use." I'm lying, but he doesn't need to know that. Frankly, I don't _want_ to see it — _any_ of it — I just don't want Jace to go into "overprotective" mode. It happened a few times before, and each time ended badly...for the other person involved. Like, for example, the paparazzi who was a little too pushy when trying to get a picture — that poor cameraman ended up with a broken nose.

Jace deflates, almost physically shrinking it seems. He runs a hand through his hair, stirring the golden curls. "I'm sorry..." he trails off, hiding his face into his hands. "This isn't what I wanted." I wish I could say I knew what he meant, but I really don't; there are so many reasons why he could be saying it, and not one of them would be too far of a stretch.

"Jace?" I ask cautiously. He could easily explode at any given moment as it's a frequent occurence when he's stressed, and I can tell that he's beyond stressed. He looks up, the light casting shadows over his face making his jawline sharper, his cheekbones more pronounced, his narrow mouth shadowed oddly.

"Hmm?" He hums, fighting to keep his eyes open.

I want to tell him to shut up, that it doesn't matter because I love him, but he won't listen, not when he's this tired. Trying to talk to him like this would do just as much good as having a conversation with a brick wall. "Never mind," I smile softly at him. "Come on," I put a hand on his back because, let's be real here, it would be pointless for me to try and not look ridiculous while resting my hand on his shoulder. "Lets go to bed."

Jace smirks at me, earning himself a smack on the back of the head, which involves me reaching up onto my tiptoes and stretching my arm as far as I can. I might as well be a midget. "To _sleep_ , you dirty-minded idiot." I smile despite myself, shaking my head. He waggles his eyebrows at me, but it's half-hearted, I can tell from that look in his eyes. We aren't who we were, we aren't that happy couple anymore. I don't even know what we are.

"What's wrong?" Jace frowns at my expression. Have I stopped smiling? I didn't even notice it. I need these torturous thoughts to let me be, just for a little while — preferably the rest of my life.

I shake my head. "Nothing." Lie, lie, and lie some more. It used to be exhilerating, waiting to see if I'd get caught, to see if the person would catch on, to see if they'd see through me like they usually did. Now, it's a terrible habit that I can't seem to quit. Maybe if I lie just a little _more_ , a little _longer_ , things will get _better_ , I used to think. I was so naive and stupid. If only people came with warning labels.

* * *

Jace holds me to him. The touch is foreign, and that fact alone makes me sad. He's gone enough that I'm not used to him holding me like this.

 _You could always go with him_ , a tiny, tentative voice in my head offers.

In theory it sounds good, like it would eliminate at least a thrid of the problems on our list, like some sort of magic solution. Yeah, _right_. We are not going down that road again.

I try to get comfortable in his hold, to no avail. Nothing, it seems, will soothe the restlesness I feel. I twist in his hold so that I'm facing him. All the stress lines are missing from his face, all barriers gone. I can almost convince myself he's the same person he was five years ago. I smile softly into the darkness, content to watch a small swatch of moonlight play flattering shadows across his _Ken Doll_ face.

"Stop staring at me," he mumbles into the pillow.

"I'm gazing."

"It's creepy."

"It's _romantic_." I run a hand through his golden curls, the temptation finally getting too much. Jace's eyes open, resting instantly onto me.

"Romantic, huh?" His eyes sparkle. Jace props himself up onto his arm. His expression is one I'm unfamiliar with, and it sends a flare of emotion through me. I can easily pinpoint what emotion it was: sadness. "What if I told you," he whispers into my ear, his warm breath fanning across my skin, sending shivers rolingl down my shoulderblades in double time, "how much I missed you? How much I love you?"

Not nearly enough.

"I love you too."

* * *

The fabric of my cardigan is comforting against my skin. I don't want to get up, but I have this burning desire to be painting again, drawing — anything. I'm jumping at the opportunity, considering the will to do anything even remotely artistic has been maddeningly vacant from my life the past two weeks.

I give one last glance at my sleeping husband. His face is burried into the pillows; the only reason I know he's still alive is the fact that his snores are resonating throughout the whole room.

I bend over the edge of the bed, kissing the top of his head. I won't be seeing him for a few hours at the minimum. But it's nothing compared to the hundreds of hours I've spent without him. Or the hours I will spend without him. I can't bear to get too attached again, only to have him so brutally ripped from my arms. There's only two pitiful weeks before he leaves again. I don't know if I'll survive if I keep getting attached.

* * *

"Clary?" Simon sounds surprised.

I try to smile at him. There's nothing reinforcing it, though, and it falls flat as I hastily turn back to my painting.

"I brought coffee," Simon offers weakly, pushing his glasses up.

"Thanks."

The silence is tense, and by all means, it should be. Simon not only saw me at my worst, he saw me completely shatter on his doorstep. I wouldn't expect anything less from my best friend of over twenty years.

He clears his throat after a long, painfully silent two and a half hours. "How was — how is..." he can't bring himself to say his name. I can quickly see his brown eyes turn furious, his face full of colour with the anger that he's held back for so long. For me. I knew this would happen eventually, I just didn't want it to.

I swallow. "I don't want to talk about it." The tears sting my eyes, the canvas a blur as my hand shakes. It's a wonder I'm still holding back the busting dam.

It's a wonder I'm still with him.

Simon engulfs me in his arms as if it isn't the umpteenth time he's done so in the last five years. "Shh, Clary, please don't cry. I can't see you cry anymore." He pleads, but all he prevails in doing is breaking my resolve not to cry.

If only I hadn't found love where it wasn't supposed to be. It was never supposed to be the boy who made the redhead jokes, it wasn't supposed to be the boy with the golden aura, it wasn't supposed to be him.

As Simon holds me, the stiff couch beneath us, I wish more than anything that it was Jace wiping my face, whispering soothing words, his hand running up and down my back.

* * *

I try not to act as broken as I am for the remainder of time I have left with Jace. He shoots worried looks my way when he thinks I'm not looking, but I see them. I see every last one of them.

I throw myself into my art, just like I always tend to when I feel strong emotions I don't want to deal with. The way I tend to when I know he's leaving me again.

The paintbrush dancing across the canvas is the only calming thing I can think of, so I've been at the stuido for who knows how long, painting and painting and painting.

The smell of oil paint hangs heavy in the air. There's not a doubt in my mind that paint is on my face, and there's some on my jeans, some on my shirt. Nothing new.

What's new is the voice coming from the doorway. It's imposing. Not necessarily scary but demanding attention. "How long have you been here?"

I shrug my shoulders. "Four, five hours?"

He lets out a long breath, footsteps follwoing. He doesn't wrap his arms around my waist as some part of me wants him to, rather stands there watching me. "If it counts for anything, I don't want to leave you."

I nod my head. I cannot look at him. If I do, I fear he'll see all the past flashing across my face like a slideshow of some sort. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I spin around, plastering my best smile over my saddend features. "It's okay, Jace. This is what you love to do, I don't want to stop you."

I see hurt flit over his face, lingering longer than I would have ever expected in his tawny eyes. "Besides," I continue, "you'll be back in a month or so, and after that you won't have to go for a while." I pray I'm right.

It's him this time who nods his head.

"I love you, Clary."

I'm trying so desperately not to choke on my words. "I love you, too."

There is no parting embrace, no last passionate kiss shared, only the locking of gazes before he spins onto his heel, leaving me to my work.

I hear the front door swing shut, with much more force than necessary. A soft flinch is all I can muster at the loud, echoing noise. Despite myself, I find my hands pressed against the glass wall, looking out at the limo crowded by fans and papparazzi alike. His security team is keeping them at bay, using their bodies as shields. It's silly of me to hope he waves to me, mostly because the windows are one-way and no one can see inside.

Just when I'm about to resign, his head moves in my direction. His eyes seem to meet mine despite the fact he couldn't see me if he wanted to, face is mared by the angry expression. If I concentrate hard enough, I could swear that his eyes are glossy.

Then again, it could just be the glare of the bright New York sun.

* * *

 **I cannot begin to describe to any of you how many times I went back and re-wrote, and or edited this chapter. Huge thanks to iLoveMeSomeCaptainAmerica - My Beta - once again.**

 **XXX**

 **ThatBlondeALB: For now, the operative words there. iLoveMeSomeCaptainAmerica is one of my favourite authors on this site, as well. Love her story Hate, and Bruises - have you read them yet? If not, get on that while you wait for my updates!**

 **AsraStar: Hope this curved your craving. :)**

 **Luvmortalinstruments: Thanks!**

 **gabergirl: They kind of talked. It was a short part, but soon there is going to be so much more Clace, you won't be able to handle the feels.**

 **purple peace sign dolphin: I only hope to keep you interested throughout the rest of the story.**

 **colorful565: I like the use of great(er) there. ;)**

 **I'm A Writing Dreamer: Oh, I'm _so_ not subtle - nor discreet - about my dealings with the Lord of Darkness himself. Never have been. I'm the exact same way, where if something is in Jace's PoV I want Clary's, vice versa. And to answer your question about which demons I've been in dealings with, hmm, well, quite a few. I sold my soul to Hades, though, if that helps. :)**

 **thegirlwhowritesinthewind: I hope they can make-up, even though they already did. What I mean is, like, forever. If that makes any sense? Like for good. Ah, there, that makes sense.**

 **amandaminrock: It's cool if you're evil. I'm evil, too, if you haven't already noticed.**

 **Ads S: When I first started to write this, believe it or not, I had no idea - nor intentions - to make Jace a rockstar, considering in the majority of my other stories he is one. But, I'm glad I did. It allows me to explore more possibilities, as to how hard the relationship would be to maintain.**

 **blossom146: Hope this chapter had enough drama for you.**

 **Guest: I'm pretty sure I would have maimed Isabelle if I were Clary. But, I can see where Izzy was coming from, you know? I wouldn't want to see my best friend that upset over a guy, either, no way, never.**

 **Guest: I'm the exact same way. I could read, and read, and read, some stories are so good. This is a Clace story, yes. They are going to stay together (they're married) but there is going to be quite a few obstacles for them. Who knows, though, sometimes you can't jump over the hurdles and instead run right into them and fall on your butt. It sucks, but life doesn't ever cut you a break sometimes.**

 **Guest: Glad you liked it!**

 **Guest: I hope this explained why she hasn't really been going to any of his shows. The problem is, that they can't necessarily do "normal" husband and wife things, because Jace is so famous. I agree with you. I should so wait for stories to be finished before reading them, otherwise I end up asking tons of question, too. :)**

 **Helen: I wish I could update much more frequently, but, alas, school is always in the way. Not to mention I can't sit still very long. Nor do my creative juices flow like a waterfall every second of the day. :/ Which definitely sucks.**

 **Giannacar: The feels are amazing, but sometimes they are just plain painful. Have you read the Infernal Devices? Clockwork Princess alone made me cry for hours. (I'm so dramatic, but I did cry.)**

 **Guest: Here you go.**

 **MI cra-cra: Jace is very committed to Clary, if only Clary knew...I once read this fanfic where Clace didn't have a happy ending, and I swear, I just sat, staring at the screen for a few minutes afterwards.**

 **blubery: I can't take all these compliments I'm getting, oh my Lord. Aha. But thank you so much. I love my Beta's stories, too. If only she could update everyday. That would be amazing. Though, as you said, things always manage to get in the way and unfortunately, you can't blow off life. Not even for a little while.**

 **Guest: I'm glad that Jace isn't being used for target practice anymore. Although, I don't know what to say on account of Isabelle's actions other than she hated seeing her best friend hurt.**

 **Cheyashton: Nice profile picture, by the way! Wow, I can't believe this is one of your favourite stories already.**

 **Guest: I'm evil like that - my stories just, kill everyone.**

 **Guest: Here you go, feats your eyes upon the most recent update!**

* * *

 **The next chapter will most likely be "Skipping Record" so look forward to that. ;) And I'm off once more to write.**


	5. Aching

**WE BROKE 100 REIVEWS! WOOOHOOO! YOU GUSY ARE FREAKIN' AWESOME!**

 **This chapter is un-beta-ed! This is because of my and iLoveMeSomeCaptainAmerica's busy schedules. I will post the beta-ed version of this chapter when I have it. :))**

 **Thirdly (this probably should have been firstly) I apologize for the lack of updates, but I promise more to come very soon.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

My life is a skipping record. Everything seems to repeat itself. And guess what? I made a mistake, a big one: I got attached again. I got used to Jace being home when I got there, I got used to his arms wrapped around me during the cold night—despite how foreign the touch felt at the time—I got used to his guitar echoing through the too-big house.

I miss him. I want this empty, aching, longing feeling in my chest to go away. I want to forget about life in general and all the problems that seem to follow it around, like an imposing rain cloud. Even for a little while.

And so, that's why I've been at the studio bright and early every day since he left, working well into the night. I think Isabelle and Simon are scared for my delicate-as-it-is sanity. It wouldn't be a first. And it certainly won't be a last.

* * *

"I'm going to kill your husband."

"Hello to you, too," I find myself smirking at the seriousness of Isabelle's tone. She may be his publicist, but she'd never make it past his human-shield bodyguards.

Isabelle groans obnoxiously. I can just imagine Isabelle tugging furiously on the roots of her hair. "Clary!" She screeches in my ear. "He got in a fight with some guy at a club!"

"What?" I ask stupidly. I know what she said, but I need an explanation—evidently.

"According to witnesses, he just started beating up the guy—though I doubt it was unprovoked. There are pictures floating around the internet, even some footage. Don't you ever go online?" Isabelle's words are like water getting stuck in my ears. They repeat themselves over and over again, refusing to just get out.

"Clary?" Had Isabelle been talking this whole time?

"Yeah, I'm here. So, what are you doing about this—situation?"

"Well," Isabelle releases a long, slightly melodramatic breath. "I don't know… _yet_ ," I let out a groan. "Clary, I promise, I'll fix it!" Isabelle adds desperately, like she thinks I'm angry—at her. But I'm not. I'm very far from being angry at her. Jace got himself into this mess; he can deal with the aftermath himself.

"All right," I find myself replying numbly. Isabelle says something else—I hope it wasn't important—before hanging up. I pocket my cell phone, staring at the half-complete mural in front of me. Jace still hasn't noticed, or maybe he has, he just chose not to mention it on account of our...delicate situation.

Knowing Jace, that's probably what it is that's keeping him from mentioning it. Oh, how I would have loved to see his reaction when he first saw it.

A smirk picking up the left side of my face, I squeeze some more paint onto my palette and get back to work.

* * *

Instead of moping—which is a feat I find difficult to accomplish, especially when I ooze loneliness and miserable-ness from every orifices on my petite body—I sit in front of the television, waiting for Jace to jump out at me from the screen. He's bound to, having just performed a sold-out concert in Las Vegas, if I'm not mistaken.

My phone flat out refuses to stop it's incessant buzzing, what with Isabelle texting me every thirty seconds, telling—not asking—me to come over and hang out with her. Instead of replying, which sounds fairly rude, I'm simply ignoring her—she's only inviting me over out of pity, and I don't want that. Besides, I know she's exhausted from whatever it is she had to do to fix Jace's image—my guess is that it involved a lot of yelling and negotiating.

If only she could hear what they're saying about him on all the Gossip websites. She would go absolutely ballistic. Or, perhaps she'd break down and cry. I can see the image, crystal-clear in my mind, and if it weren't for the fact that I have never once in my life seen Isabelle Lightwood shed a tear, I would believe that that's what she would look like crying: matted, horribly tangled hair sticking to her saltwater-drenched face, black smears that are supposed to make her look like a sick racoon of some sort make her look like a French film star instead.

"Jace Herondale has been making news this past month," a blonde reporter grins at me through the screen, the name snaps me to attention, away from my mental image of what Izzy might look like crying. I stick my tongue out at her like a petulant child, because, hey—I'm home alone, and she can't see me.

"First a cheating scandal, and now performing in sold-out arenas. What else has this rock star got up his sleeve to keep us hooked?"

"What about a bitter wife?" I mutter, the words searing my tongue. I'm not per say bitter, just miserable. Maybe I should have gone with Jace.

I'm what people might call anti-social, as it took me until fifth grade to make any friends at all. Not to say that I hadn't known Simon and Isabelle before then, rather I just had a hard time being, well, _social_. But, being with Jace and all, I've kind of had to push my social anxiety to the side, even if it is barely there anymore.

"Well, we've got you covered!" The blonde reporter laughs, blue eyes alight. I mock her over-cheery attitude. "Last night, our delicious rock star was caught in a fist fight with who—this morning—was revealed to be band mate, Sebastian Verlac."

 _Sebastian_? I can't say I recall meeting him. I don't believe I have. He must be new, I realize, deciding to switch the channel. I don't really pay attention to whatever's on, because I'm stressing over my Gala on November thirtieth. Basically, it's an over-advertised night of bubbling champagne, uncomfortable dresses and high-as-heaven-heels, and my artwork on display. I know I'm an artist, and people need to see my work and all for me to actually make money, but my art is very personal to me. I use art the same way someone would use a diary to vent their feelings; art is my diary.

I think I might actually enjoy these Gala's that happen every few months if Jace were there beside me. It never fails that he's out of town, and or busy on the date of said Gala. Cue dramatic sigh.

I glance down at my phone, which, mind you, has been vibrating none-stop for the past fifteen minutes. I swipe at the screen, illuminated by the dozens of texts from Isabelle. The screen reads _6:15 p.m._ I wonder if Isabelle's offer to hang out is still on the table?

* * *

Drunken Isabelle is never good—well, not for anything than some quality entertainment. Otherwise, though, drunken Izzy should be avoided at all costs. Because somehow, she'll still manage to talk you into doing something as well as if she were awake, and most of the things she will try and get you to do are illegal.

Next time I want to go out for drinks, I should keep that in mind.

"You know," Isabelle grins at me, laying her head across the bar. I shudder to think how many germs are on black slab covered in grim and fingerprints. "I bet Jace would like it if you went to one of his shows." She begins to slur her words.

I nod. It's a good idea; I'm just not sure how that would play out. "It's...an idea."

"Clarissa, it's an amazing idea!" Isabelle slams her fist down on the bar next to her head. "Admit it."

"Whatever you say, Iz."

She grumbles something in response, before ordering another drink. I believe this is the part of the night when I decide she's had enough and bring her home to a scowling Simon. She's going to have one incredible hangover tomorrow. I always think that might teach her not to drink her own body weight in alcohol, but I'm always sadly mistaken.

* * *

All night, Isabelle's idea has swirled about my buzzing mind, still alive with the after-effects of liquor. I weighed all the pros and cons carefully and there are more pros than realistic-cons. Why shouldn't I go to one of Jace's shows?

And that is how I ended up sitting in front of my laptop, browsing the web for Jace's concert information in the dead of night, moonlight pouring in through the open curtains. I could just ask him, but what's the fun in that?

My phone rings startlingly next to me; I answer it, putting it on speaker as I scroll through the concert dates on Jace's website. I feel that familiar ache in my chest when the background shifts to an enlarged picture of him.

"Clary," Isabelle moans on the other end of the phone.

"Izzy," I mock.

"Why did you let me do this?"

"Just be happy I cut you off when I did—you tried to order a bottle of tequila, you know." I inform her. And after that, she drunk dialed a very amused Simon, but she didn't need to know that.

"I'm never drinking again," Isabelle says decidedly.

I snort. Not my finest or most attractive moment. "I've never heard that one before." I murmur, long ago did I lose count of the times Isabelle said that exact phrase.

"Shut up."

I roll my eyes. "You did say something interesting last night, though."

"Yeah? And what was that?"

"You gave me the idea to go see one of Jace's shows." I worry at my chapped lip. Isabelle could react one of two ways here.

"Damn," she says. "Even drunk I'm coming up with good ideas."

"Will you come to the show with me?"

"I don't see why not—Maryse is always telling me she'd love to watch Max whenever I need it." Maryse: Isabelle's mother, and basically an older version of Isabelle herself. She's divorced retired and absolutely refuses to get a pet. Grandchildren are truly a blessing to that woman.

"Great," I purse my lips, "I'll see you at the studio?"

"Maybe."

"Okay," I muse, ending the call.

Focusing closely on the screen, my eyes skim over the information for a concert in Madison Square Garden on December first. Perfect. That's only a little while from now. I grin, but it falls when I realize all the things that might go wrong. One of them: he might not want me there. And the possibility of it scares me. It scares me much more than I'd like to admit.

* * *

Apparently, hangovers aren't an issue for Isabelle, because she's dragging me through one high-end store after high-end store in six-inch heels like she hadn't drank half the liquor in New York last night.

"Iz," I whine pathetically.

"You need a dress for this Gala." Those are the last words uttered from Isabelle for the next four hours, as she's obviously too busy pushing me into changing room, after changing room, arms clad in what is most likely every dress in whichever store she decides is a "must-visit."

This woman might just be the death of me—or I might just walk out, abandoning her in the midst of the shoppers milling about. Either option sounds much better as opposed to trying on the whole store.

I pull on a floor-length white dress. I didn't look at it all that long, wanting to get this shopping expedition over with as fast as possible, but when I step out of the changing room and Isabelle lets out the biggest gasp I've ever heard—even bigger a gasp than when I'd told my Mom I was getting married—I know that this dress is something special.

"Oh, Clary," Isabelle gushes, "look!" She spins me by the shoulders to face a three-panel mirror on the opposite wall.

The dress has a sweetheart neckline, with geometrically-shaped pieces of what has a semblance to glass and mirror all over the bodice. The skirt of the dress is long, and flowing, going straight down like a white waterfall. Amidst the imposing white of the gorgeous dress, my hair is hot lava, spilling over.

"Are you seeing this?" Isabelle exclaims, grabbing at the loose skirt of my dress. "It has strands of gold sewn in!"

I squint at the dress in the mirror, finally seeing the kind of golden hue the white has to it, giving my pale skin a certain glow. It's utterly gorgeous, and the fact that the gold colour reminds me of Jace's eyes may or may not be part of the reason I pay the hefty price at the register. It also may or may not be the root of my sudden burst of wistfulness.

I have to admit, I never anticipated finding a dress that I actually liked. Now that I have, though, it makes me want to find the perfect pair of shoes, the perfect accent piece. I never thought I'd be caught dead saying that—much less thinking it.

* * *

I unlock the front door, arms laden down with the weight of what seems hundreds upon thousands of shopping bags. Isabelle practically bouncing in her heels behind me. She might be more excited than I am about this art gala.

"It's going to be so amazing, Clary. You'll see—and you're such an amazing artist. It's just going to be amazing!" I think amazing is her new favorite word.

"I don't know," I shrug. "I wish Jace could be there."

Isabelle quiets, face impassive, nearly thoughtful from the occasional scrunch of her trimmed brows. From the way she's rattling off random sentences to herself, voice barely above a whisper, I know she's planning something. Whatever it is, I'm not sure I want to know.

* * *

I feel giddy like a child on Christmas morning.

My hands shake with a sort of nervous energy, as I stare down at the bed where I've laid out my dress. I already took a shower; I already did my hair and makeup. There's nothing left to do. Shaky hands grasp the dress, laying it across my knees as I sit on the bed.

I begin to slip on the dress, it is only when I'm standing again and trying to get the dress to stay up that I realize there's a zipper on the back. That I can't reach. Oh joy. How am I going to get the dress done up?

I manage to somehow shift the dress enough that—with a lot of bending and _Cirque du Soleil_ -worthy moves—I zip up the back. Stretching and stifling a yawn, I glance side-long at the messy bed. If I hadn't put so much effort into my whole ensemble tonight, I would just opt for crashing on the comfier-looking-by-the-minute-bed. And then there's also the part where I paid an unholy amount of money for said ensemble. That most definitely gives me the extra kick I need to put on my strappy black heels, and get the difficult clasp on my necklace to cooperate.

 _Its okay_ , I tell myself, looking in the mirror hanging in the entryway. This is going to go perfectly fine just as it always does—boring, but fine. Just like every other Gala I've ever been to. This is nothing new, just talking with potential buyers.

My heels click against the hardwood. It makes the emptiness of the house that much more evident, and much realer. God, I miss Jace. I drop my keys into my clutch, very nearly forgetting my phone, hastily shoving the infernal device into the tiny clutch. The design on said clutch is nearly the same as the bodice of my dress.

And with a deep breath, I head to my car, feeling much like a princess in my flowing dress.

* * *

Warm lights ooze through the upper-windows of the studio. I'd expect them to ooze from the first level windows, too, if it weren't for the fact that they were heavily tinted. Taking a deep breath, I walk through the front doors.

Warm smiles and insincere congratulations surround me.

"Clary, hey!" Simon struggles towards me through the thickening crowd, a broad smile cracking his face like chipped paint. The tie around his neck tells me just how much he loves me because he absolutely detests ties—and if he hates anything more than eating meat, it's ties.

"Hey Si." He embraces me tightly, and I cling to him, too. He smells of pine and wood, and I can hear his suit crinkling from the pressure of our embrace—not that he seems to care all that much. I hug him tighter, and I can't help but to think that if he smelt just a little bit more like laundry soap and lemon and sunshine that I could pretend he's my golden boy. But I could never, because he's Simon; he's my best friend.

The chocolate-eyed man pulls away from me, pushing his glasses—slightly askew on his nose—further up the bridge of his nose, staring me up and down with something akin to awe flashing across his face. "You look amazing, Fray."

I shove him softly. "Shut up," despite myself, I feel my cheeks reddening. "You've seen me in this stuff before."

"Of course I have," he nods in agreement. "But—," he stops short when a small figure crashes into my legs. I sway in my heels.

"Clary!" Max squeezes my legs hidden underneath the fabric of my dress, his glasses pressing into the side of my leg.

"Maxie," I tease, ruffling his coffee-coloured hair. He releases his grip on me. "You look pretty," he blurts, turning bright red, reminding me greatly of Simon ten years ago. It's unbelievably adorable.

"And you look very handsome," I bend down slightly, smoothing over his bed-head hair and straightening his glasses. He swats my hand away from his hair.

"Thanks," he mumbles softly, turning his back to me, looking up for a beat before running off.

"He's your incarnate," I muse softly, tracing patterns into the skirt of my dress. Simon simply shrugs in response.

Through the throng of the crowd, I spot a blotch of bright red. The crowd parts like running water around rocks for the blotch of red—for Isabelle. Some of the younger men murmur amongst themselves, and I can't help but laugh at their misfortunate choice of woman.

"Mommy, did you see Clary?" Max squeaks, staring up at his mother with dark, loving eyes. "She looks like a Princess!"

Isabelle laughs softly, taking his tiny hand in her manicured own. She flicks her eyes up—at me.

She sucks in a sharp breath, grinning at me. "Someone cleans up nicely," she hums, wrapping a strand of my hair around her finger. "You look beautiful," she takes me by surprise, wrapping her thin arms around me.

"Me?" I laugh, pushing her away if only so I can gawk at her choice of dress: a ruby floor-length gown, the bodice beaded with hundreds of tiny glass beads, her ruby pendent hanging at her throat matches the dress and her immaculate bloody lips. "You're kidding."

I meet her charcoal gaze, something unusual gleaming in it. Something that should be sending my brain into chaos, trying to figure out what it is specifically her eyes are betraying, but my brain is apparently too star-struck by the portrait in front of me: Simon's arm wrapped around Isabelle's waist, Max snuggling into his mother's side. My chest aches again.

I tear my eyes away from the loving scene, hating myself for the surge of jealousy that hits me in the stomach. People chat animatedly, or inspect my art for flaws—they'll find some, because they manage to—others drinking the intoxicating tawny liquid from shining glasses, soft music trickling through the studio, the occasional clinking of champagne flutes.

My wandering gaze settles on one of my favourite paintings that took months to finish. I think longingly of Jace and how he kept telling me to "paint me like one of your French girls," for weeks after watching the movie Titanic. He'd love the painting, I'm sure of it.

My breath catches in my throat when someone wraps their arm around my waist, pulling me into them. I turn to shove them off of me, only to be met with aureate pools staring down at me. The set of the sharp jaw, the sun-kissed complexion, narrow mouth and silky, golden curls—I'd know his face anywhere.

I feel the skin splitting, breaking, cracking with the width of my ear-to-ear smile.

"Hey." He smiles—he doesn't grin, or smirk, but _smiles_. It turns him into the most beautiful creature I've ever seen when he smiles like that.

I throw my arms around his neck, standing on my tiptoes—because even in heels, he's taller than me. I just can't win—alright, maybe I can, because this right now, it feels like winning to me.

Jace brings his head down, his lips dangerously close to my own. It seems people have realized that a celebrity is in their midst, and despite the fact that he keeps bringing his lips closer to my own, and closer, until our lips are touching, pressed against the other's, no one looks away—in fact, I think more people look our way.

The effect of his lips on my own is dizzying, in the best possible way—despite how cliché it sounds.

It's over too soon. Because I know he'll be leaving again soon. It makes me glad that I planned to go to his show at Madison Square Garden tomorrow night. He doesn't need to know that, though. He surprised me by showing up at my Gala; it's only fair if I surprise him in return.

Jace smiles down at me, hands on my waist. It's not one of his teasing, playful smiles, either, this one is genuine—not to mention infectious. If this was the reason for that odd gleam in Isabelle's eyes, I owe her big time. She's just made my night.

 _Everybody's watching you!_ my mind screams, and it's then that it actually registers within my brain: _everybody's watching me_.

I feel unnaturally self-conscious, while Jace seems unaffected—much less fazed—by all the attention and the camera's snapping photos. I suppose fame has that affect on people.

I try desperately to shut out the eyes—the attention—hoping they'll get the hint and go back to whatever it was they had been doing before my husband had arrived. I understand the fascination with famous people, but seriously people—did your parents not teach you that it's rude to stare?

It seems no one in the studio has any shame, as they stare on at Jace and I, like we're some exhibit in a museum.

Only when Jace pulls me into his side again does the majority turn away, whisper not-so-discreetly about the heartthrob and his midget of a wife.

"I missed you," I tell him, resting my head against his lean chest. I can hear his heart beating, and if I'm not suffering auditory hallucinations, it's beating a little faster at the action—at my touch.

"Well, that's good," he looks down at me, "because I missed you, too." He squeezes my side lovingly. If it were not for the indiscreet whispers and stares, I could believe that I wasn't with Jace Herondale, the rock star, but my Jace. The one thing I couldn't possibly live without.

"So," Jace grins at me. "Show me some of these paintings, Picasso."

I roll my eyes, but laugh nonetheless at his corny joke. Taking his hand, fingers entwined tightly together, I pull him towards the biggest canvas hanging on a wall that separates two different sections. It's my favorite; I hope he likes it just as much as I do.

"Hmm," Jace hums, taking a step back to fully view the painting. "Looks familiar," he flashes me a knowing smirk. I can't believe that I'm just noticing his crisp, white tux. It fits him perfectly, and the head of messy, golden curls only make it that much better.

"I'd hope so. It's my celebrity crush."

"Are those angel wings?" Jace asks, sounding astonished, if anything.

"Perhaps," I reply distractedly, scrutinizing the image for all the things I could've done better. "I should've spent more time on the wings," I murmur to myself. "Could have used more gold, too."

"Shut up, would you?" Jace wraps his arm around my shoulders. "You're so hard on yourself, you don't realize how amazing your art is." His hands rub circles on my exposed right shoulder.

I look up at him disbelievingly. "And this is coming from the guy who once recorded a song twenty-three times over because he didn't like it the first twenty-two times!"

With amusement, I spot his cheeks tint pink. "Tsk, tsk, Clarissa. I haven't written lyrics all over our walls, now have I?" I suppose it's my turn to turn pink—perhaps more like bright crimson.

I can't help thinking, if we were like this all the time, things would be perfect. But then again, perfect is boring.

* * *

"Clary!" My mother embraces me. I battle with shock for a few beats before wrapping my own equally pale and freckly arms around her. I've heard "you look just like your mother when she was your age," so much when I was younger that's it is forever burned into the side of my brain.

"Mom," I smile, watching over her shoulder, two men of nearly the same height walk like the risen dead through the suffocating crowd.

"You're so talented, sweetie," Jocelyn gushes, admiring my art from where she stands. I watch her hands twitch softly—something I recognize as her want for a paintbrush—before she simply pushes a strand of dark scarlet hair over her shoulder, only to travel down the side seam of her emerald wrap dress.

"I wish," I scoff, "you're the artist in the family, Mom."

She turns bright red, pivoting to look over her shoulder. "Valentine, look at your daughter's work!" She beckons over the bigger of the shadows hovering uncertainly against the wall.

My father, built like a football player, with broad-set shoulders, is imposing and sometimes, scary-looking, but is probably one of the nicest people you'll ever meet—in the world of business, that is. He holds me in a back-breaking, air-depriving hug. Sometimes he doesn't know—or realize—his own strength.

When the white-haired man releases me from his death-grasp, I'm very nearly panting for breath.

"You look so grown up," my brother teases, one hand on my shoulder, the other he uses to wipe a fake tear from beneath his green eyes matching my own.

"Me? Are those wrinkles I see? And..." I gasp sharply for effect, "a gray hair?"

"Aw, shut up, Sissy," he ruffles my hair, using what feels to be an ancient term of endearment. I scowl at him, crossing my arms like a petulant child despite my age.

"I'm serious. You might just shrivel up and die in a few months," I warn, giving him a look.

After some cringe-worthy small-talk—no one in my family having ever been good at small-talk—Jocelyn and Valentine leave Jonathan and me to look around the exhibit. My brother stays exactly where he is, not moving even a millimetre. I have this horrible feeling gnawing at me that something bad is going to happen. "So, trouble in paradise?" At first, I think he's joking, but his face remains impassive, tone indicating that he is, indeed, being serious—something I once upon a time thought a foreign concept for my elder brother.

"What?"

"I'm not a hermit, Clary, as much as I'm going to bet you wish I were—I saw all that shit about Jace cheating." Jonathan informs me, eyes darkening a few shades, narrowing in me—no, something _behind_ me.

"You know it's not true, right?" I squeak, and for some reason, I'm desperate for my brother to believe me. I remember on my wedding day, Jonathan warning Jace that if he ever hurt me he would not only but tear Jace apart limb from limb until he was nothing more than a bloody torso, but he would then proceed to mount Jace's head on a pike (that is if I didn't kill Jace first, possibly with a variety of weapons—according to Jonathan). That's pretty much all I know, as this 'talk' or as I like to call it, _threatening_ , happened in private, and I heard about it from Jace later on—on our Honeymoon.

"Yeah," Jonathan sighs. "I know. That doesn't mean I trust the guy, Clary, fame does things to people—just look at Miley Cyrus, Amanda Bynes..." he trails off, watching with a deadly glower as an arm wraps around my waist. Jace kisses the crown of my head, despite Jonathan glaring daggers at him. If looks could kill—

"I get that Jon," I say, "and I'm fine, I assure you. Like you said, a variety of weapons," I smile, though it feels like Jonathan is peeling away my façade layer by layer, seeing the real me underneath that's grasping in the dark for the man she fell in love with, hoping he's not really, truly gone.

"Uh-huh," he mutters. "Because I _so_ believe that, Clarissa," Jonathan rolls his eyes at me, white hair falling in his eyes as he stuffs his hands in his pants pockets, slouching against the wall. If it weren't for the salt-white hair, he would blend in perfectly with the shadows.

Jace clears his throat loudly. "How have you been Jon?" I can detect the underlying tone of hostility in his voice, feel how tense he is, and though I can't see his face, I just know that he's glaring at my brother.

"Just great," Jon smiles menacingly at Jace. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if Jonathan sprouted deathly sharp canines and ripped out my husband's throat. "How about you, rock star?"

"All right, All right," I step in between the two boys, putting hand on both of their chests. I feel Jace grow much tenser under my touch, both heat and hostility rolling off of him in nearly tangible waves, though I don't know why. "Stop with the death stares, stop with the underlying hostility—just stop, okay? Okay, good—." I clap my hands together "—Now that that's settled," I shoot both men a warning look. "I'm going to go see Mom and Dad."

Both mutter a response, like little boys just having been scolded, though I cannot be bothered to stay another second in the middle of whatever supposed "manly" feud it is they have going on.

Butterflies—and not the gentle, giggle-worthy kind—wreak havoc in my stomach, tying it into knots, stressing me out beyond belief. And when I mention Jon and Jace being so hostile to one another, always at each other's throats, Jocelyn simply tells me, "both want what's best for you, but have different ideas of what that is."

But what do they think is best for me?

* * *

 **Hey, I missed updating so much on this story. Again, I really want to apologize for the lack or updates for the past month.**

 **ThatBlondeALB: I hope this filled your need for Jace :) I really want her to start updating Six, too. I also want to apologize for the lack of updates for My Ghost, I just can't find any inspiration for it right now, as I'm busy editing and writing chapters for I Hate You.**

 **Page1of365: I'm glad it's one of your favourites! And you are most definitely right, there is a lot more of the story to unfold.**

 **Wessaforever: I'm not quite sure how I feel about doing a Jace POV for that certain point of the story thus far into the story, just because there is a possibility I might give away more than I should. :)**

 **Jling: Glad you like it!**

 **Golden Herondale: (Like the username) Hope there's enough Clace spark in this chapter for you.**

 **Giannacar: You're so sweet (I get a lot of reviewers telling me this a sad story-must be.)**

 **thisgirllovestoread677: YOU GOT IT! WHHOOOHOOOOO! TVD MOMENT-IT FIT PERFECTLY!**

 **clarissa adele herondale: I can't either tbh. Jace makes me sad, too, Clary seems a little depressing to me (like all the time, she's such a downer I feel like, but you guys like her.)**

 **MortalHearts12: It hurt me to write, to have Jace and Clary part ways like that.**

 **Guest: (Please use something other than "Guest" I'd be okay with a number at the end) I'm really very flattered that you like my writing so much. As for writing a novel, I'm trying! I've made a Fictionpress account under the same username, and I have the prologue of my first story up.**

 **Guest: It really does seem a shame, but nothing is ever prefect, and Jace bign oh sso famous makes life even harder than it has to be. Maybe if he just stopped being hot?**

 **Guest: I can't tell you anything about Sebastian! I apologize, Miss Jackson!**

 **lava: If Clary does get a backbone (which she might, I make no promises-I'm Satan, remember?) and break up with him, they'd probably have to get divorced. And I'm sorry, I can't remember the name of the fic where Clace doesn't quite get a happy ending. I know its one where they go to a ski lodge or something like that?**

 **Yumna: I hope I never lose inspiration so much that I chose to discontinue a story! (I probably won't.)**

 **Janna: You are too sweet, thank you.**

 **Guest: He does seem cold, doesn't he? Fame does things to people, just look at certain celebrities.**

 **Ads S: I feel honoured that you even like my story enough to review! Sometimes this story just pulls so much at my heartstrings that I have to take a break from writing-yeah, that's how heart-wrenching future chapters are.**

 **blossom146: Not necessarily, just that her life keeps repeating, you know?**

 **Guest: I still can't believe I got 100 reviews, you guys all rock so much!**

 **Zeppy3333: I'm contemplating doing a Jace POV very soon, actually, so keep your eyes peeled for that.**

 _ **I appreciate all of your reivews, all of your love and seemingly endless patience with me! Thank you so much for the support!**_


	6. Look

**New chapter! Yay! This chapter, as the last, is un-beta-ed, mostly because I just wanted to get it up.**

 **The chapter song is Flawless by The Neighborhood (which is also the song in here.)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Hopelessly lost, I curse Isabelle for telling me she was not going to joining me last minute. She is used to these kinds of places, and would know her way around one, unlike my embarrassingly clueless self. People push past me, barely any of them noticing me—despite the very distinctive head of fiery hair. Then again, I did inherit the munchkin genes of the family.

"Watch it, little girl," someone sneers, shoving me into a wall. I want to snarl back some smart retort—that is until I remember before we got married, Jace telling me that not everyone finds my temper adorable—and as the person being objectified, I object to that description of my temper, which is a force to be reckoned with. Sort of.

I never stop moving, hoping to stay out of people's way—which is just about an impossible feat, when you take into consideration that there are hundreds of people rushing around, attempting to get things done before the show starts. And not a single one of them knows how to say _excuse_ _me_ or _pardon me_. They can't _all_ be native to New York...

"Mrs. Herondale?" Someone calls out; I swear next to everyone's eyes fall on me, waiting, watching, to see what I do. It's not me they care about, oh, _no_ , it's the name. "Come with me." I spot a woman with blonde hair, headset, and clipboard, smiling softly in my direction.

Hesitantly, I follow her, weaving my way through the throng of people slowly turning their backs on me, resuming the task it was that they had been performing before the disruption. Her strides are long and purposeful; it makes it hard for me to catch up and keep up. "Is it safe to assume you're looking for Mr. Herondale?" The corner of her mouth twitches upwards, like she wants to smirk at the words.

"Not really."

"Oh," she cranes her long neck downwards to meet my eyes, pale brows furrowed in confusion. Her pace never falters. "Then what can I help you with?"

"I'm…trying to surprise him."

"Oh," She grins toothily ahead of herself. "Come on then, he'll be out here any minute."

Just so I don't fall behind, the woman grabs my wrist, tugging me gently, cautiously along, carefully avoiding anyone carrying heavy objects or setting up equipment. We walk pass the large, flat black surface I could only ever recognize as a stage—where Jace will no doubt be performing—the bright lights looming overhead the flat plane creating a vicious glare. The view from the stage is that of thousands of empty seats, soon to be crammed with giddy, screaming fans.

What seem to be shadows whiz past in a flurry of colour, double, triple, quadruple-checking all of the equipment: lighting checks, sound checks, wiping down the bands' instruments, doing test-runs on the televisions perched near the ceiling. I can feel the excitement humming through my veins—or might it be the vibrations radiating outwards from the massive speakers placed all over?

Regardless of the fact that I was completely bordered by people and it made me a little claustrophobic, I found it all mesmerizing. There was so much excitement and pure, boundless energy buzzing in the air I was sure I could drink it all in.

I follow her blonde head, staying quiet as she leads us down a stark white hallway with large, imposing photos of all the famous people who have performed here. I seem to have forgotten just how much of a history Madison Square Garden has.

I can't help smiling to myself, reminiscing absent-mindedly about high school, when Jace had been the start quarter-back. I bet he never imagined that he'd be a singer; much less one so popular—or that he'd be married to Clary Fray, of all people, only a few years after graduating.

Finally, we stop in front of a door. Jace's name is written in bold, black writing on a thin gold plaque—though I'm positive it isn't real gold. This must be his dressing room. Wouldn't he be in here, getting ready for the show?

"Don't worry, if everything is going according to plan, he should have just left for sound check three minutes ago," the woman smiles at me as if she were reading my mind.

"Oh," I nod obediently.

"I'm Helen, by the way," she holds out her hand for me to shake. I do. "Mr. Herondale's stage manager."

"Clary Herondale, Jace's wife." I humour her, though I stumble on my last name, very nearly introducing myself as Clary Fray. What has gotten in to me? She laughs lightly, inserting a key into the lock, twisting, jiggling roughly.

"Stupid doors," she mumbles, looking back at me sheepishly. "Won't ever open. I was trying to let in some people in from wardrobe—so they could bring in some clothes racks—and the door wouldn't open then, either." A few seconds later, she's able to open the door.

The inside is gorgeous—not to mention pristine—with a leather couch, vanity table, and clothing racks galore. Small pots line the vanity table, flesh-coloured powder spilling out.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Helen looks around appreciatively.

"Very," I nod my agreement. "So, how would I surprise him?" I ask, not quite sure how I'd be able to accomplish such a thing from the comfort of his lavish dressing room.

"You can watch the concert from the television, over here—if you'd like," she motions to a large flat screen seemingly plastered to the wall in front of the leather couch. "And when the show is almost over, I'll bring you back out, and we can head up to the main stage." She looks down at her clipboard, talking hurriedly into her headset.

"If it's not too much of an inconvenience, could I watch it from backstage?" I run my finger across the back of the couch, looking up, almost shyly, only to find Helen grinning broadly at me, turquoise eyes alight.

* * *

Backstage isn't my favourite place.

I am absolutely positive that I am nothing more than a safety hazard, as a lot of people have nearly run into me and dropped some very expensive-looking equipment. Some then proceeded to curse at me, which I enjoyed _very_ much. They're just lucky Jace wasn't around to hear it—and then my muttering of a shy apology, as I stared down at me my feet, something I haven't done since I turned twenty—he would have not only had their jobs, but their necks as well.

"Three minutes!" Someone manages to shout over the chaos. By some means—if such a feat is even achievable—things become a great deal more chaotic than they had been mere seconds ago.

"Mr. Herondale, on stage—now," barks Helen firmly, pointing in the general direction of the circular stage. It takes a moment for me to realize that we're only separated from the crowd of screeching fans by a few measly pieces of lengthy, velvet curtains.

And then, I catch a glimpse of gold.

Jace is flocked by people; whether they're dusting powder on his face; adjusting his clothes; handing him his beaten up guitar; talking at hyper-speed to get what they need to say out, him nodding in response, turning to the next person.

It's just a full out mess. It occurs to me then that where my mess is of oil paint, dirtied palettes and glossy canvases, Jace's mess is of voices, scrawled script, and last minute details. How on earth can a neat, organized person like my husband deal with such chaos, with such a complete and utter _mess_?

No longer flanked by people, Jace pulls a guitar strap over his shoulder, letting the instrument itself hang down his toned back. I watch with amused eyes as he rolls his shoulders backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, repeat. I thought he let go of the nervous habit a long time ago.

I blink. When I open my eyes once more, the curtain is being lifted rapidly, Jace is in what I suppose is his designated position: head bent, spine straight, shoulders tensed. His band members are spread out on the stage, one in particular catches my eye though. He very well could be a shadow, but with the increasing amount of light that floods the stage from the rising curtain, I can tell that he's tall, with narrowly-set shoulders. The burgundy guitar he holds reflects the spot light while his fingers ghost over the chords with years of practice.

Notes for an unfamiliar song ring out throughout the oddly quiet Madison Square Garden. I can't put my finger on what song this could possibly be, and I know all of Jace's songs by heart—sue me. It can't be a new song, he just put an album out—

 _She planned ahead for a year; he said "Let's play it by ear"_

Jace's voice carries through the arena, the sweet, comforting sound of his voice washing over me.

 _She didn't want him to run; he didn't want her to fear  
_

 _Nobody said it'd be easy, they knew it was rough_

 _But, tough luck_

Entranced by his words, I listen to him sing. It has been much too long since I heard Jace sing, nevertheless I could stand here in the shadows and listen for years.

 _I fell in love today; there aren't many words you can say_

 _That could ever get my mind to change_

 _She's enough for me; she's in love with me_

 _You're a doll, you are flawless_

 _But I just can't wait for love to destroy us_

 _I just can't wait for love_

 _So, she put his heart in a bag, he wouldn't ask for it back_

 _He didn't want her to cry, she didn't want to be sad_

 _She said, "You better not leave me"_

I furrow my brows in thought—this sounds like...

 _I fell in love today; there aren't any words that you can say_

 _That could ever get my mind to change_

 _She's enough for me; she's in love with me_

 _You're a doll, you are flawless_

 _But I just can't wait for love to destroy us_

 _I just can't wait for love_

It can't be...

 _Add it all up, I can find it_

 _The problem with love is I'm blinded by_

 _It rattles my lungs, but my mind is_

 _Tangled between your little flaws_

 _Your flaws, your flaws, your flaws_

 _You're a doll, you are flawless_

 _But I just can't wait for love to destroy us_

 _I just can't wait for love_

He wrote this song about us.

* * *

Well into the sixth song, I'm still standing like a shell-shocked idiot against a wall where lighting is scarce. He actually wrote about us—about _me_?

Does Jace know I was here? Had somebody let it slip that Mrs. Herondale was wondering around the arena, hopelessly lost? Of course he knows—Jace always knows, one way or another. Maybe he's psychic…

I shake my head, attempting to focus on the sweet string of words falling from his narrow mouth, and not the song or the unexpected bout of nausea that wants me to retch until my innards are spilled on the floor.

My brain is still trying to absorb the fact that Jace wrote about me—unless, he didn't actually write the song, and he was just singing it. I think my head might burst.

If Jace did write it—I don't know. I just don't.

This will most certainly be the death of me—that is if I don't spill my entrails first.

What if the song _isn't_ about me? What if he actually _is_ cheating on me? Just waiting for the right moment to up and leave and never come back. My body goes stiff, muscles tiring with the strain of how still I'm standing.

I thought the idea would make me cry—bawl my eyes out like a little baby until I'm dehydrated—but I don't. I simply stand in place, body rigid, throat feeling as though it's slowly closing, cutting off my air supply.

 _No_.

 _Jace loves you_ , I repeat the three words until they are as ordinary as breathing.

But of course, a nasty little voice sneers _: you're just lying to yourself. He'll never be yours alone, and you know it. It's surprising that he's still with you. Look at yourself—such a small, untrusting, apprehensive, hopeless little thing—and then look at all the models he could be with, never having to commit to a single one. He could live the life a real rock star, if you weren't holding him back._

I want to cover my ears, in hopes that it might block out the horrible voice. I don't want to hear it. I'm going to turn Jace into a complex, if I keep this up. His image is already blurry enough, surrounded by words and outlined by gold. Am I just seeing what I want to, or the real him?

My head suddenly hurts as badly as my stomach had minutes ago; I need to stop over-analyzing things.

Tentatively rubbing at my temples, my body practically sings in relief that I've given up my rod-straight stance. Why do I make everything so complicated?

I turn my attention back to Jace, in an attempt to calm my racing mind. Any thoughts I might have had fly out the window when I watch Jace move—his fingers strumming across the metal chords of the guitar, without even having to look, his rich voice filling the extensive space.

I wish he would sing at home. But that won't happen—mostly because he never _is_ home.

Before I even know—or can comprehend—what's happening, Jace is thanking the audience, wishing them a goodnight, smirking accomplishedly as they cheer louder than they had throughout the whole show—I think my ears drums might burst.

An embarrassingly high-pitched squeak escapes my lips when a cold, long-fingered hand clamps down on my shoulder.

"Sorry, Mrs. Herondale," Helen smiles sheepishly at me, her turquoise eyes alight with feebly hidden amusement.

"Oh," I press a hand over my speeding heart, nodding in acknowledgement.

She peers out at the stage where Jace is still bathing—more like drowning—himself in the ambience pulsing from the pumped-up crowd a few levels below him, reaching out to touch some of them, bringing a fair quantity of screaming teenage girls to tears. The pale-haired woman in front of me flicks her eyes down to her clipboard, back out at Jace, and then she ultimately settles for grinning at me.

"Go," she nods her head in Jace's direction.

My heart seems to drop to the soles of my shoes and get caught in my throat all at the same time. " _What_?"

"On stage— _surprise him_ ," I guarantee her grin only broadens at my surely paling face and widening eyes.

"I—oh, no, no, no—I-I can't—," I halt myself, stumbling over every word that slithers from my traitorous lips.

Helen gives me a shove by the shoulder, "go," with one more impish grin, the gives me a final, gentle shove and— _ohmygod_ I'm on stage. Not a lot, but enough that I can't run backstage. Something in me tells me it's too late now, and well, go big or go home. Here goes—take note of the nervous gulp here—nothing.

As I walk towards Jace, I pass the shadowy man with the burgundy guitar. Leaping at Jace's back, I wrap my legs around his torso, my arms snaking around his neck. He lets out a slight grunt, not to mention a string of curses as he attempts to look behind himself to see what—or more like whom—had hit— _ahem_ , landed on him.

"Language, Jonathan," I giggle despite myself, hoping he can hear me over the wild roaring of the crowd.

" _Clary_?" He asks in incredulity.

"No," I slip down from his back, releasing my grip on his shoulders, "you're _other_ wife, who also likes trying to tackle you."

" _Oh_ ," he turns, waggling his eyebrows at me, pulling me by the waist to face him, ostensibly unfazed by the absolutely roaring crowd, brightly flashing strobe lights that make me to some extent nauseous, and horror-movie worthy screams. " _That_ wife."

"Yeah, _that_ wife," I roll my eyes, his lips crashing down on mine.

I can feel the dampness of his skin, his calloused fingers holding my waist, burning a path up and down my skin wherever he touches. And more so, I can feel eyes boring holes into my side.

The spotlight is warm, shining down on my pale, freckly flesh. I have no idea how Jace can stand under so many lights for hours at a time. How he can bear the just about insufferable screams resounding, echoing through Madison Square Garden.

"This is a nice surprise," Jace murmurs, pulling away from me, his breathing heavy.

"I thought it'd be." I trace the pad of my index finger across his chest, meeting his eyes through lowered lashes. The eyes still linger on me, burning me, leaving blisters where they glance.

Jace shouts his last good-byes to the crowd, pulling me off stage with him—and thankfully away from the interfering eyes. I blink in the darkness, trying to re-adjust following being below such brilliant illumination.

"Were you here the whole time?" Jace asks, between gulps of water, curiosity dancing in his aureate pools.

"Maybe," I shrug, leaning my head back against the cool surface of the wall. I feel his eyes on me, hot, and without a doubt burning a hole into the side of my head. Unlike the unnerving stare of Jace's band mate, this stare is welcomed. I crack open an eye, "what?"

He smiles the ghost of a beautiful smile. "Nothing."

"Oh—come on," I take a step forward, pushing at his shoulder. He only shoots me a customary lopsided grin before turning away to talk with someone.

* * *

The black sky overhead, filled with smog, coloured by the faintest orange glow. Broad men dressed as though it were their job to blend in with the night shadows usher me hurriedly into a waiting car, its engine humming idly.

Shuffling as far away from the door which I entered the car, I sag pathetically against the cool leather seat behind me. Staring blankly up at the car roof, watching as shadows from passing cars are cast upon the dull ceiling, I wonder where it is that Jace disappeared to for so long, leaving me alone.

I let my eyes drift shut, eyelids feeling as though they're made up completely of lead, and take more energy than they're worth to keep open. Visions of Jace flit through my memory: him, pouring himself out into so many songs—I wonder how many of them he's written himself—I see his shirt sweaty, and sticking to his golden skin. I see his tawny hair falling into his aureate eyes mid-song. I remember flawlessly how the lights had twisted and curved his hair from one ethereal shade to the next: gold, to silver, to a strange acid green tone, to amber.

I hear a door shut softly, and hear the distinct locking mechanism click. I just barely lift my eyelids, peaking out at whomever it is—presumably Jace. His hair looks wet, strands of gold sticking up randomly around his head resembling a disorderly halo.

He heaves a sigh, resting his head against the seat, proceeding to throw his muscled arm over his eyes, the fine hairs on his arm catching the light from passing cars.

"Tired?" The question comes without permission, my voice thick with fatigue.

He chuckles dryly, almost...darkly. "You think?"

The two worded, two syllable sentence hits me. It hits me hard. He might as well have slapped me across the face for how much his words sting. Is he angry with me for coming to the show? Of course he is, his concerts are his...place, I suppose. I shouldn't have gone to his show. End of story.

But he'd been so happy to see me...

We spend the rest of car ride in a rather constricting silence. The silence embraces me like a chokehold. But of course, silence has been my friend all these long, lonely years.

When the car at long last pulls to a painfully, torturously slow stop in the driveway of our lacking affection and warmth house, I don't hesitate to slam my door on my hasty getaway from the car.

"Are you trying to wake the dead?" Jace mutters under his breath, but for whatever reason, the area is abnormally quiet, and I hear every single word, the biting, bitter undertone of those words, and then the irritated intake of breath afterwards. My only response is to increase my pace.

* * *

None too gently do I pull my keys from the table by the front door, the metal edges digging furiously into the palm of my hand, I take notice of Jace shuffling around in the house. Frankly, I don't care what he's doing for once.

Just as I pull open the front door, the brass handle cool against my calloused hands, Jace returns, a crystal glass with fanciful designs covering it in his hand catches my eye. It's not so much the cup itself, but what's in it—an amber colour, unmistakably liquor. Knowing Jace, it's the strongest we have in the house. I feel my lip curling in disgust at the sight.

"Where are you going?" He demands—is he...is he drunk? Is that what he had been doing while I'd been left to stand awkwardly in the shadows of Madison Square Garden?

"None of your business," I spit, taking a step out the door, cold winter air hitting me calmingly. The last thing I need here is to lose my cool completely.

"Yes, actually it is." Jace reaches for my wrist, his grip on the glass of his haunting vice tightening significantly.

 _Don't touch me_ , I think pleadingly, because I know if he does, I'll lose it completely.

"Goodnight, Jace." I take another step out the door, and again until I can slam the door in his so manifestly drunk face.

* * *

The studio is empty.

Perfect.

I throw my keys on the couch positioned directly in front of the wall of windows, the sound echoing through the empty halls. I pick up one of the biggest canvases I have in the studio, perching it on my easel.

Squeezing paint from the old, folding and bending, paint-caked tubes, I grab one of my favourite brushes, feeling the familiar wooden handle in my hand, and the way the peeling paint of said handle pokes at my hand puts me somewhat at ease. And with great absence of care or caution, I coat the worn, white bristles in whichever colour of paint, and draw long, swirling, curving lines across the beautifully blank canvas.

With blind determination, I continue my rage-inspired painting. Soon enough, though, my canvas is covered with wet paint and I'm forced to look at what I've done.

I stumble a few steps backwards, looking my painting up and down.

The canvas depicts a boy, with angel wings, each feather a golden eye. His tawny hair blows in the vicious wind, back tense and his jeans ridding low on his hips. I hate the painting. I hate with every fibre of my being. I hate it like I hate myself for falling for the boy who I didn't even know, like I hate myself for marrying the cold, distant man that boy became.

With trembling hands and broken, paint-crusted nails do I try and tear the thick canvas. I'm not stupid; I know it won't work. But that doesn't stop me from trying. All that there is to show for my fit of anger, though, is a few measly scratch marks through the paint.

* * *

"Hey," my shoulder is shook softly, "Clary, wake up."

I blink. My eyes shifting in and out of focus on a blonde head of hair, much too lightly coloured to be Jace. Once again, I hate myself, this time for the disappointment that courses through me like poison.

"Jon—what are you doing here?" I sit up, smoothing out the crinkles in my shirt.

His hand sits on my thigh, as he crouches before me, green eyes—which usually shine like newly polished emeralds, but are now a darker, more serious shade of green—are settled solely on me. "I hardly think it matters," the corners of his mouth tilt downwards. "What's wrong, Sissy?" I remember when we were younger, I'd hated the name so, but now, it just has ceased to matter.

I shake my head. "Nothing—"

My brother swiftly cuts me off, his tone implying that I have no say in the matter, "Clarissa, so help me—tell me what's wrong."

" _What's wrong_?" I echo his words with a bitter laugh. "The same thing that's always wrong, _Jonathan_. Did you honestly think any different?" I hang my head in my hands, defeat and despite myself, sadness overwhelming my senses. I may have felt on top of the world only a few days ago, but now I feel—I don't think it matters.

My brother proceeds to growl out a mouthful of vicious threats and profanities under his breath, looking away from me, at his shoes. How could the man I fell in love with me such a different person than the one I'm married to? It must be a new phenomenon.

 _Both want what's best for you, but have different ideas of what that is_ , my mother's words bounce around in my head. And regardless of how much I know deep down I don't want to know, I blurt, "what do you think is best for me?"

Jonathan looks at me unusually, bright white hair falling in his face, green eyes darkening ever so slightly. "What I think versus what you're going to think are two very different things, Sissy," he says it as though it's a warning, "I don't think you want to know."

I nod my head, resembling an obedient child. "Tell me."

He sucks in a long breath, stalling. "I think you'd be better off on your own than you are with... _him_ ," Jonathan's lip curls in disgust at the mention of my husband. "And before you tell me differently, just take a good, long look at that painting behind me."

I comply, staring unblinkingly at the boy, at the long, paint absent lines up and down the canvas— _I did that_. The painting stirs something deep within me. Without warning, I feel my throat tightening, an all too familiar lump stuck in it.

"You want to cry, don't you? Now, go ahead and tell me why you were here so late last night—and painting that of all possible things?"

"I was angry."

"Why?" Jonathan prods, his tone complacent; he knows he's won.

A few beats of silence follow his words, and then: "because of him!" I shout, face burning brightly with anger. If expected my brother to be shocked on any level or at least show something akin to shock, he doesn't. He only looks smug, with his right eyebrow raised ever so slightly, and his arms crossed over his lean chest, as if to communicate to me without words: _I told you so_.

* * *

 **Hey! I'm really sorry, I've been busy and quite honestly writing just slipped my mind.**

 **JessaGraystairs: I'm glad you like it.**

 **It's Kris: Oh, I think you'll really enjoy (or not-probably not) how the story continues to unfold. Jace is a very bad boy.**

 **chesire15: I can promise Clace drama, but not Clace happiness.**

 **ThatBlondeALB: Clace is also my OTP, more so than Wessa (and that is saying something) I cannot and will not tell you any spoilers for My Ghost. Nu-uh. No way. My lips are sealed.**

 **Page1of365: I love updates too! :))**

 **Ads S: Yeah, that's how I felt too, like you see what the famous person and their publicist and everyone like that _WANTS_ you to see. You don't see the real them, and I thought it would be an interesting story concept to explore as I have a few stories where they're dating (or getting there) but nothing _that_ serious. I mean, I was so so so freaking happy when I got the idea to do that, I was like Yes, yes, this needs to happen. I really hope this chapter showed even more how much Clary is struggling with Jace and his career.**

 **lunatic-blondie: I am delicious and have a tendency to cause addiction, sincerely every junk food you've ever had.**

 **Giannacar: I really love the sibling dynamic between Clary and Jon in this story, I can't help but think that it would have been awesome for Clary to have the "good" Jon as a protective older brother in the books. But he was a great villain.**

 **Shauna: I'm still working out all the kinks for the Jace POV. But I can tell you there will be at the bare minimum one Jace POV. I can't promise it won't get less depressing, though.**

 **Yumna: Aw, you're way too sweet. I have plans to finish all of my stories (I Hate You is almost at it's end, maybe six-seven more chapters.)**

 **Janna: I'm glad you guys like getting replies to your reviews, because it one, is quite a bit of work, and two, you guys absolutely deserve it. And I know that Valentine will never be a nice man, but I like to change things up sometimes.**

 **gabergirl: I'm glad you like the Clace scene-it was so much fun to write. I hope you liked this chapter. :))**

* * *

 **The next chapter will be "Empty Gold" let's see what you guys think that means...**


	7. Empty Gold

**Once again, un-beta-ed, but I was excited to give you guys this update before I get super busy again. (I have to participate in the Science Fair and Historica-which is essentially a history fair-and my class has entered a video contest to win a trip. Plus I'd like to catch up on my reading!)**

 **Secondly, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Ads S, the only person who left me such a lengthy, sweet review that touched base on all the things I wanted this story to be (and apparently is) without being able to put it in words. You are such a sweetheart and I hope you love this chapter.**

 **I guess that this chapter also has a song? I'm going to say it does, because the chapter is named after it. So the song is Empty Gold by Halsey.**

 **Okay, I'll shut up now, you go read.**

 **Enjoy! :))**

* * *

 _This house is much too big_ , I think as I stare at the front door, at the brass knob so cold to the touch, at my shiny silver keys, taunting me to just pick them up and be done with it—be gone. I bet the only reason he wanted such a big house was so that he wouldn't have to see me so much. Because it's not like he cares either way. He has girls throwing themselves at him left and right—there's no need for me to hang around like the stupid, naïve girl everyone thinks I am. Not to mention the deadweight I must be to Jace.

No moonlight filters in through the bedroom window, no strange shadows are cast upon the sickeningly, maddeningly plain walls, not tonight. If anything, it makes the house somehow emptier. I pick at my nails, attempting pointlessly to remove the paint stubbornly stuck to them—anything to keep my hands busy, to keep them from shaking with cold. Or is it the fear that he won't come back—that tonight will be different—that's making them shake?

My clothes are cloaked in paint, violet blue, ruby red, and pine green, fire orange—you name the colour, I probably have at the minimum, a swatch of it on my worn, spattered clothes. The corner of lip twitches at thought of Jace slaving over the stains, trying to get them out. Who said only women do housework?

And again, I think of how different my life would be if I did just up and leave without a word. Would he be worried? Would he stay up to until the latest hours of the night, waiting to see if I would come home to him? I snort unattractively. Both I and my over-active imagination, with its perfect boys that it loves so much to dream up, know that I won't leave.

My heart ceases to beat, jumping up and clogging my throat, blocking my airways. All this because the dreaded _What If_ pops into my exhausted head: what if Jace is with someone else, right this very moment, while I sit here, worried beyond belief about him? Suddenly, the trees of loneliness morph into a forest, each tree closing me in further. And I must confess how hard it is to breath through the trees of loneliness.

I rub my temples. How did fame turn my Jace into—into this… _thing_ —this empty gold? Was it all the pressure? Was it the cameras flashing everywhere he goes? Was it the constant attention? Was it, perhaps, the lack of privacy? Or was it just everything in general?

I drum my fingers against the stair for a moment, hesitating to pull out my phone. I only hope Izzy knows what to do, because I evidently don't. Holding my breath, heart still stuck in my throat, I dial Isabelle's number.

"Iz?"

"No, how'd you figure it out?" She snaps sarcastically.

I take a deep breath. "Well, at least we know your sense of humour is still intact at four in the morning," I laugh nervously, trailing off awkwardly.

"Clary," she sighs. "Why did you call me?"

"Do you, by any chance, know where Jace is?" I dig my nails into the palm of my hand, hoping the pain might give me some sort grip on my slowly, surely slipping calm. _Breathe, breath, breath, breath_ , I chant internally, because despite Jace being a tall, muscular, force to be reckoned with, I'm worried sick about him.

"What do you mean; do I know where that insufferable moron is?" Isabelle demands, voice like a thousand nails scraping down a chalkboard. She sounds much more awake than she had only seconds ago. In hindsight, maybe I should have kept this…issue to myself.

Despite myself, I ask the painfully obvious: "you _don't_ know where he is?!" Panic laces my voice, my pulse picks up, heart pounding against my rib cage like a hammer, each beat of the utterly useless organ proving to be more useless when all it manages to do is create more trepidation than the last beat—because what if he's hurt?

"Clary, I'm his publicist. Not his personal stalker." Isabelle sighs tiredly.

"Where is he?" I whisper, much more to myself than to Isabelle.

"Breathe, Clary, he'll come back—he always does." She sounds so sure of what she's saying, but what good are her words, meant to be gentle, and reassuring, if I don't believe them?

"Izzy—" I let out a choked noise so pathetic sounding I turn bright red, "—he's been gone all night—I haven't seen him all day."

"All this, just because he…" she mutters angrily, trailing off. "Look, I'd come stay with you but Max isn't feeling well," she tells me apologetically.

"Oh, I hope he feels better soon," I say, followed by a short _goodbye_ , and then the line goes dead.

* * *

One day: I'm worried sick.

Two days: I'm panicking.

Three days: I'm going out of my mind.

Four days: I'm desperate and disappointed, hugging my toilet bowl every other hour.

Four days without Jace. Not even the media—who seem to know his next move even before he does—knows where he is, and all I can think is: whatever mess he's gotten himself into now, it's up to him to get out of it.

My golden boy could be dead, rotting away in some gutter, skin colder than ice, eyes dull and lifeless. The thought makes me sick—and not figuratively; I end up lying on the cold bathroom floor in the fetal position, eyes bloodshot, and my head and stomach a complete and utter mess.

I watch the lights overhead flicker for what seems like hours before I, with near herculean effort, push myself to my feet, and brush my teeth. And as I coated the worn white and blue bristles with green paste, I think: _Jace will come back. He always does. Why would this time be any different?_

 _Maybe because he isn't on tour_ , a quiet voice in my head offers. The voice of reason, I figured. It was the only thing keeping me sane while Isabelle tried to sort out this awful, horrible mess. And what a mess it was turning into as the days passed.

I've read all the reports—the ones that say my other half has run off with some gorgeous, European model, the ones that say he's dead and gone, even the utterly ridiculous ones that say he's been kidnapped by terrorists.

And what's really eating at me is the fact that no one will let me do anything to help. Maybe it's because of the horrible cramping I've been suffering, or the sudden bouts of vertigo. Maybe that's why they won't let me help—because I'm sick; in New York, you never what's going around, so really, it shouldn't surprise me that much that I am sick.

I hate feeling like some sort of damsel in distress who's too busy weeping at her tower window to do anything useful. That was one of the reasons I fell in love with Jace – he didn't treat me like that porcelain princess that could do no more than stare wistfully into the abyss of hopelessness that surrounded her. But that's exactly what I'm doing now. He would be disgusted.

Not that _he_ has any right to be, the way he's presenting himself.

"Let me do something," I whisper into the empty abyss that is this massive house. It was designed to keep me lonely, I'm sure of it—not that it matters.

* * *

They say its hatred that burns you inside out—that burns out whatever it is that you were before. But whoever said that wasn't completely right, because sadness does the same, except it tears excruciatingly—tortuously—at you, bit by bit, you fade away until you're nothing more than one of the shadows lining the walls.

And it is as a mere shadow that I sit on the steps, staring bleakly—hopelessly—at the door that has remained still since a few days ago, when people just stop coming over. Perhaps they saw the glassy quality to my eyes. Perhaps it was the dark crescents coating my under eyes. Or perhaps they all simply saw what I do when I catch a glimpse of myself: the raw, uncensored sadness haunting me—rotting me.

He's rotting me away to a skeleton, my clothes baggier since the last time his aureate pools rested on me. And it isn't because I refuse food, more like I can't keep anything down for the life of me—which might be quite literally.

My fingers run up and down the seam of my dirty jeans, splattered with every colour of the rainbow. Where I would usually find solace in art, I've only been able to find a wall, blocking me from that creative part of my mind filled with odd animals, childhood inventions, demons and angelic Jace's.

And then I hear the door slamming shut, followed by clumsy-sounding steps; an ogre trying to be light on his feet.

My eyes snap up to be met with a red-rimmed, golden stare.

Relief floods my aching chest, and as I hastily push myself from the steps—suddenly, I feel as if I've been unsuspectingly doused in ice-water, realization hitting me like one of those horrible bouts of vertigo and nausea.

"Clary—," he begins.

" _Where were you_?" I whisper, feeling salty rivulets roll down my cheeks like an avalanche. Anger coils in my stomach; I wipe at my eyes with the unforgiving fabric of my sweater, face heating rapidly.

"Please—stop looking at me like that," Jace's voice is hoarse, aching almost. Slight stubble coats his jaw, and my senses are over whelmed by the intense smell of liquor. This is not the man I fell in love with…I don't know who this is.

"Like what?" I grit out, nausea sinking its claw into me, dragging me away from my prepared arguments.

"Like you don't know me…like I'm a stranger." His eyes aren't the ones I once looked at adoringly; they're the eyes of a coward: he was drinking away his problems while I couldn't even keep a drink down; he was drowning in misery while I drowned in despair.

"You are," my voice is soft, and I absently wonder where that fiery retort that was on the tip of my tongue went. But even that retort—whatever it had been—couldn't have delivered even half the blow that those two three-lettered words did; his eyes dull, if only by a fraction, and his posture speaks volumes. "The man I fell in love with wouldn't drink away his problems. _The man I fell in love_ with wouldn't leave me wondering whether or not he was ever coming back."

Jace shakes his head, righting his posture, he towers over me. "I _am_ that man," he says firmly, looking down to meet my eyes, with his own bloodshot amber pools, but I can't tell whether he's trying to convince me or himself.

I shake my head at him, wishing— _praying_ , even—that this wasn't my life right now. "You're not, and it's a shame—because I really loved that person." I watch the look in his eyes transition to something akin to pleading. Pleading with me to take back what I've said.

"You don't mean that," I suppose his tone is supposed to be firm, but he falters his voice a mere whisper.

 _I wish I didn't_.

I clear my throat of the thick lump forming within it. "Why don't you tell me which problem was so overwhelming that you felt the need to drown yourself in liquor?"

He's silent, and then he spills his guts to me. I really wished he hadn't.

 _But you can't leave me—not again—please_ , I plead with him internally, saltwater leaking from my tear ducts. Typically, the saltwater rivulets would be stained with the thick lather of my mascara, but not today.

"Clary—please don't cry," his sun kissed complexion contrasts against my creamy own when his hands grasp me by the shoulders. Jace presses his lips to my own, like he's trying to kiss away the pain, trying to dry my tears. Instead he comes across desperate, and I feel as though I'm kissing whisky, bourbon, scotch and cheap beer all at once. Palms flat against Jace's lean chest, I push. He stumbles backwards, looking down at me wildly, and—

"I feel sick," I mumble, making for the bathroom. Bile rises in my throat, my feet moving faster than they might have ever across the polished floor. I don't bother with the light switch, crashing to my knees before the porcelain bowl. It's the same feeling I'd had at Jace's concert, and it is by no means pleasant.

I think I might have truly retched up my innards this time around. I haven't really eaten in the past few days, so how is it possible that my body is producing this much bile? Blood roars in my ears, my pulse is jumping, and tears well in my eyes. Not from sadness either.

Calloused pianist fingers rub circles and trace patterns up and down my back. I don't want him touching me, not when he's so hung-over I could push him over with the flick of my wrist—even in this…state.

"Don't," I wipe at my mouth, feeling the heat radiating off of my skin in waves. "Don't touch me Jace."

"Why not?" He doesn't cease his actions, tone calm.

"Because—" I flush the toilet "—because I don't want you touching me, that is why not." His eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot look into mine with a certain serenity I've never seen from him before—no; it's not serenity, its sympathy.

"You're sick," he murmurs, flat out ignoring my previous words. "You need rest, Clary." Suddenly his eyes snap to meet my own. "Have you slept _at all_ since I've been gone? Have you eaten—?"

"Jace?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up. My head hurts." He nods his head, turning away. A terse silence follows, only broken when I concede to answer his ridiculous question because he looks like a kicked puppy and it hurts me to see him like that. God, he's the one that's been jumping from one seedy place to another getting so drunk he probably couldn't even remember his own name, and here I am treating him like the victim. I truly have no spine. I disgust myself, and yet I can't help it.

"I haven't slept, no. And I can't keep anything down." I tell him quietly. It really isn't anything out of the ordinary, a simple flu that should be gone within a few days. "I probably just have the flu," I voice my thoughts.

"I'm sorry Clary, I just couldn't handle—I _can't_ handle leaving you anymore." He runs a hand through his gilded locks, his face molded in what looks—and holds the promise of being—to be a permanent frown. He's so unlike himself a few years ago. Maybe it's just who he is now and I have to learn to live with it somehow.

"I know," I whisper, allowing his fingers to ghost across my forehead in one swift motion, pushing a loose strand of hair back behind my ear. "And I love you for it, Jace, but you can't abandon your career for _one_ person."

Jace laughs, a noise that makes my cheeks strain with the effort I put in not to smile at the throaty, musical noise I love so much. "You might be one person Clary, but you're the only person that matters." The words melt my heart, and this time, I allow the smile to split my dry skinned-face.

"Stop," I murmur burying my face in my hands, embarrassment lighting my cheeks an unflattering shade of red. This however, only seems to encourage my husband; with warm fingers does he pry my hands away from my face. And instead of letting my hands go, he twines them with his own, smiling sincerely at me.

"I missed that smile," he comments absently. Where is the cold, distant man I had known only four or so days ago? I don't know what I'm doing—I don't know how to act around this version of Jace.

My words stay caught on the tip of my tongue, and even if I could get them out, I would not want to, for the amicable silence is more than we've had in months. It is only when my eyes begin to shift in and out of focus and I can hardly keep them open that the silence is broken: "Okay, bedtime," as an alternative to simply pulling my small weight to its feet, he places one arm under my knees, another against my back. With might have been herculean effort if our roles were reversed, Jace picks me up bridal style. I suppose he isn't as hung-over as I originally thought.

I feel every step he takes; I hear every rhythmic heartbeat like a soothing melody, and I feel every inhale and exhale of apple-scented breath. When Jace lays me gently on to our bed, joining me seconds later. His arm finds its way around my waist, my back pressed flush against his chest.

"I don't _want_ to go Clary— _don't let me go_ ," he whispers against the crown of my head, face buried in my dark red locks. He thinks I'm asleep; otherwise he wouldn't bare his heart so openly, so willingly. I pick up easily on the double-meaning, and it turns what shattered pieces of my heart that remain somewhat intact to dust, a fine powder. The dust particles dissolve into my bloodstream, sending one last jolt of energy through me.

And I do with it something I never expected.

"I won't," I whisper in reply to my golden boy before falling into what must be the deepest slumber I've had in months.

* * *

 **I HAVE A SURPRISE! ARE YOU READY?**

 **NO, I DOUBT IT, BUT HERE WE GO: I WILL BE WRITING A VERY, VERY SPECIAL PROLOGUE FOR THIS STORY.**

 **Do you know _why_ it is oh so special? **

**No?**

 **Well, It just so happens that the Prologue will be of Clary and Jace's wedding when they were 21.**

 **It might not be out for a little while, because this is something that I've never written before and as weird as it sounds, I want it to be perfect.**

 **Okay, I need to breathe.**

 **Also, I have made a Pinterest board for this story. The board itself is titled "Fading" there's more information about it on my profile, if you're interested.**

 **Now on to the reviews.**

 **clarissa adele herondale: Trust me, lots of things are wrong with all of us(by us I mean me), the only thing different about Jace is that his flaws are magnified by some freak phenomenon. I apologize for breaking your heart. Guess I took that Marina and The Diamonds song too literal, huh?**

 **Jling: I didn't intend to make it depressing, but truth be told this story is much different than I thought it would be. When I wrote the first chapter and posted it I didn't expect much of a reaction, but here we are!**

 **gabergirl: Have you ever heard of Murphy's Law? Well, in case you haven't, here it is: anything that can go wrong _will_ go wrong. But then, there is also the years old saying of "light cannot exist without shadow" so next time I write something really sad/depressing/emo-seeming/angsty remember my wise words. (*scoffs loudly*)**

 **ThatBlondeALB: No spoilers for My Ghost, sorry ;) But I'm glad you seem to be...enjoying this story. (And by enjoying, I mean wanting to use Jace as target practice while also rooting for him to pull it together.)**

 **Ads S: I certainly did not know I had the power to write such a wrenching romance, because in all my other stories, I kind of struggled for a while with sparking Clace's romance to start the fire, if that makes sense at all. But what I can't believe is how well you were able to translate into words what I wanted to portray in this story. Not even I could do that. Thank you.**


	8. Jace

**Hey! This one is, you guessed it, un-beta-ed.**

 **But that's okay.**

 _ **(This chapter has be re-edited!)**_

 **The chapter songs are Golden Days, by Panic! At The Disco and My Gun by Tove Lo**

 **I don't know, I just listened to them a lot while I wrote this chapter so i thought perhaps you'd all enjoy hearing them.**

 **I'm done now. Go read. Drop me a review after, too!**

* * *

Christmas passes in a holly, jolly blur: ice skating in Central Park, Jace and I having a snowball fight, watching Max's small face light up with joy at the sight of all his new comic books, visiting my parents with Jace, Jon and I's Just Dance battle. The tree was up and down within a matter of one week, though bags filled to the brim with torn wrapping paper still sit idly by our front door.

Soon enough, though, I was helping Isabelle plan the "best, most favourable, fashionable—not to mention rocking, New Years Eve party. Like, ever."

And for once, I don't feel like my life is tearing at the seams. I feel _happy_. Hanging a newly-framed picture in the studio, I smile softly, because it seems I finally— _finally_ —have my husband back—at least until tomorrow when he leaves again.

Stepping back a few paces, I stare unblinkingly at the small photo. It was such an Izzy thing to do, taking a picture like that when neither of us knew. But I can't thank her enough for the things she done for me the past month. She gave me the best surprise I've gotten in a long while, she somehow found Jace when no one could, and she constantly keeps Jace's image up, which is a feat so tremendous I cannot even begin to fathom how much time and effort she puts into it.

The picture shows Jace and I, our lips molded together, snow pressing down heavily. We're each covered in snow, small white flecks caught in our hair, sticking to our clothes. It might just be my favourite present.

I snatch my keys from where they rest on the couch, along with my jacket. The January air is not kind, and it bites at my cheeks, like a cruel kiss. I nearly slip on the black ice coating the walkway coming out of the studio, but amazingly catch my balance, heart hammering in my chest. Laughing nervously to myself, I walk to my car, surprised at the fact that my grip-less boots don't trip me up a second time.

The inside of the car is no warmer than the frozen outside. Shivering, I turn the keys in the ignition, hearing the music-to-my-ears roar of the engine. Adjusting my rear-view mirror, I take a quick peek at my complexion. My freckle-splattered skin is nearly white, my lips in the midst of turning blue, just the same as the tips of my fingers.

Turning away from the small mirror, I pull out of the studio parking lot, grinning to myself—Isabelle won't know what hit her when she sees what I'm wearing to her party.

* * *

 **Isabelle POV**

The computer screen in front of me burns my retinas. The headlines are exactly as they should be: _Jace Herondale Headed on Tour Tomorrow!_ No mention of his drunken "vacation" from work or his infamous bar-brawl. Perfect.

My fingers itch to dial the now-familiar phone number, to find out how things are going. But I refrain, if only because things are sorted out now and there is no need. But then again—

The shrill ringing of the phone in the noiseless room coerces me to jump in my chair. With clumsy, hasty fingers, I swipe at the screen to answer. My hands, feeling strange and foreign, as if someone cut off my own and replaced them with someone else's, shake slightly with a nervous energy as I press the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Is he back?" He speaks without hesitation, tone firm and more serious than I believe I've ever heard from him in face-to-face conversations.

"Yes," the answer is so simple, yet holds so many unspoken words.

"How—how are things?" he gulps, and I can tell he's nervous though I know he would never admit it.

"Clary's happy to have him back; it's like when they first got married." The thought makes me swell with happiness for my best friend. "She's happy—for the first time in a long time, Jon, she's really, truly, purely happy."

"He doesn't know it was me?"

"Jace hasn't said anything, no, if that's what you mean." I twirl a strand of smooth hair around my finger, repeating the motion over and over until it seems second nature.

"Good. The last thing I need is for him—or my sister—to know I dragged his ass out of that bar." I feel envy at his words, for they make me yearn for my brother. But it is a silly wish, because he left to elope with his boyfriend in Europe years ago. If only my parents had been a bit more open-minded, more willing to accept and love their son the way he was—the way he was born.

"I know, Jonathan," I snap. "Don't patronize me."

"Isabelle," he sighs, "you _know_ that's not how I meant it. Just—I have to go—do not let either of them find out." And the line goes dead, leaving me to wonder if I've truly made things better or if I merely added a band-aid to the wound that can't be patched.

* * *

 **Clary POV**

When I pull in to the driveway, I immediately know something is off. Soon enough, that _something_ reveals itself, and in the form of a black car.

Parking my own car, I once again nearly slip when I rush to get out of my car, keys in hand.

I don't bother with kicking off my boots when I get inside, carelessly tossing my keys on the table. I march forward, taking the polished steps two at a time. Where Jon and Jace are involved, nothing good is to come.

When I reach the landing, voices echo the length of the deserted hall.

"If you ever do that again, I swear, Jonathan Herondale, I _will_ kill you." Stopping dead in my tracks, I take a moment to let the words sink in; did I really just hear that? Should I pretend I didn't hear it, or say something?

I don't know what to do here. One half of me—more like nine-tenths of me—wants to say something, while the other half tells me to keep my mouth shut. But if I don't say anything—I just got a brilliant idea.

Leaning against the doorframe, I observe Jon and Jace, nearly chest to chest, glowering at each other with such intense hatred I feel as though I could reach out and grab it. "We're leaving soon," I say, manifestly interrupting the silent conversation they must have been having.

Both men spring apart, Jonathan beating his head against the corner of a picture frame, meanwhile Jace rams his hip into the corner of his solid oak desk. Both men curse profusely.

Jon is the first to recover, however: "Sissy!" He beams, long, skinny arms seemingly swollen where muscles protrude reach out for me. "Did you miss me?" his beaming smile stretches into a painfully forced grin.

"Don't grin like that—it makes me want to rank you higher than clowns on my creepy list." I tell him, burying my face in his chest like I did not hear what I just did. Jonathan chuckles, the deep sound vibrating through my bones.

"And by creepy, you mean stunningly handsome?" I feel him adjust himself, his head resting atop my own—and I know exactly why he did it.

"By creepy, I mean threatening my husband and glaring at him while you're hugging me." Pressing my hands flat on his chest, I push him away, feeling him tense more than he did mere seconds ago under my touch. Backing away from Jonathan, I shoot both men a pointed look. "There's a thing called doors—a wondrous invention, really—they have hinges that allow for them to swing from point A to point B, also permitting for privacy. What's even more amazing is the small circle on them, typically appearing to be brass, that can be used to open and close the fantastic invention over and over and over again.

"You might want to try using one." I leave both men—the way they're acting, they don't really deserve to be called men—I leave both _boys_ with slack jaws, reddening cheeks and stuttering stupidly for something to say.

* * *

It is with a bounce in my step that I put on my ripped jeans. The top is in actuality my favourite piece, covered in rose gold glitter, it sparkles and shimmers and shines odd designs on the wall when I move under light. When I pull the extremely thin-strapped top on, it feels tighter than it had when I tried it on at the store. The back dips low, reaching just below the small of my back.

I sit back on the mammoth bed behind me, bouncing ever so softly as I pick at the loosened threads where the rips in my jeans are. The rips, big or small, reveal the freckles dotting my skin like freshly splattered paint. I glance up, hair marring my line of vision as I stare at the pair strappy heels situated directly beside the new pair of black Chuck Taylor's I got for Christmas…

 _I'm so horrible_ , I think melodramatically as I lace up the black shoes, the heels still sitting untouched where I left them days ago; _oops_.

The dark stain upon my lips draws out my eyes, and the rose gold and the pallor of my exposed back creates an imposing contrast that I'm sure my brother and husband won't approve of; _oops_.

"You almost ready, Sissy?" Jonathan asks from where he stands, hand braced on the spotless doorframe, leaning forward ever so slightly, his shoulders positioned at an odd angle. His moon-white hair is unruly, falling in his light emerald eyes, which is ironic, really, because his cream-coloured blazer and black tee are crisp and wrinkle-free. His shoes shine as if he painted them with a glossy clear-coat.

"Absolutely," I smile at him, just waiting for him to notice the low dip of my shirt. I may be twenty-six, but I am, and will always be, his little sister.

"In that case," he clears his throat, holding out his arm in my direction. "Shall we, little sister?"

"We shall, old man," I tease, linking my arm with his own lengthy one. Feigning hurt, he presses his free hand to his chest, letting a faux gasp escape his pallid mouth. "And here I thought we were getting along, Sissy," he nudges me with his shoulder, to which I bump his leg with my hip.

We descend the stairs, arms still locked together in what seems an unbreakable pattern. Jace is waiting by the front door, one hand tucked tightly into the pocket of his leather jacket. His aureate pools are fixated solely on me, darkening fractionally. Stepping forward, eyes never leaving my own, he hands me my jacket.

All right, not the most romantic gesture ever, but I'll take it.

I shrug on my jacket and a beat later we're headed for what is surely the biggest and incomparable New Years Eve party in town.

* * *

The bar Isabelle rented out is filled to the absolute brim. Girls dance, shimmying and twirling in their meagre clothing and pumps. The sight brings back vivid memories of high school, when Isabelle would make an effort nearly daily to get me to go out and be one of these girls. Though I never did, the possibility, the idea, the hope, the wish—whatever you want to call it, it kept Isabelle adamant about my less than desirable social life.

Obnoxiously loud music threatens to burst my eardrums, and yet—I love it: the heated air, the insurmountably thunderous chatter, the clinking of glasses, the knock of shot glasses on the grimy bar, and the less than enviable roaming eyes. All of it—every last piece reminds me of high school. And maybe, if only for tonight, I need to be a kid again.

I twist back to Jace. Jonathan, as I expected, is long gone, having slithered smoothly into the sweating, dancing mass surrounding us. "Dance with me," I offer a toothy grin his way, knitting my hands with his calloused own.

He smirks at me, eyes flitting around the crowded room, like he's looking for someone. "Come on," I tug on his hands, holding on to my little by little slipping grin. Jace shakes his head, "yeah," he mumbles.

"Jace—what's wrong?" I drop his hands, staring up at him, endeavouring to catch his unattainable eye.

"Nothing's wrong, why?" After another beat of letting his eyes wonder, he casts his tawny eyes downwards—and he must see the concern, and if he doesn't, he certainly sees the pure, wholesome worry etched into my features, for his hand reaches up, cupping my delicately small chin in his hand. "Hey—," his rosy lips draw closer to mine with every breath. And for whatever reason, my pulse still jumps, making it feel as though my heart has engaged my chest in an intense kickboxing match.

When Jace's lips ultimately meet mine in a gentle kiss, his hand glides down from my chin to my waist, the other coming to rest comfortably on my narrow hip, fingers just shy of touching my uncovered back.

His lips are soft and sweet against mine, moving with a certain expertise that accompanies years of practice. Jace kisses me with fervor while I let my hand settle on his chest, feeling his heart thrash with renewed vigour under my touch—do I truly do that to him?—more or less as though the blood-pumping appendage will beat directly out of his lean chest—I smile against his lips.

"Dance with me," I repeat my former words, tugging on his hands, unmoving on my hip and my waist.

Wordlessly, Jace follows my direction, tawny eyes ostensibly surveying my every motion as I weave through the suffocating, claustrophobia-inducing crowd. I walk through the pressing crowd until I reach a spot I'm content with: a spot in the midst of the aforementioned crowd, one where no one seems to notice—or care, for that matter—who is in their vicinity. But, I'm willing to bet my house that most of them are so drunk that right is left and left is right.

I lift one of Jace's hands as high into the air as I can, twirling and giggling like a five year-old.

Jace, however, does not seem to think I look like a five year-old as I giggle and twirl, for he uses his hold on me to pull me back to him, my back flush against his chest. Looking back at him, I glimpse his eyes, dark and heavy on me. The sight makes my heart thrum faster within the confines of my chest.

The night goes on without issue—which more often than not is an impossible feat for Jace and I to accomplish. And as I head over to the bustling bar, I feel eyes on me. The feeling is not pleasurable. Not in the least. Yet, in a strange sense, the eyes are familiar.

"Tequila," I tell the bartender, fighting the urge to lean my body on the side of the bar—I really do not want to get whatever it is that has touched this bar all night get on me, but I just need to give my feet a break. Still, I remain in my prior standing position, waiting for my drink.

Calloused fingers ghost across the bare skin of my back, coercing me to whip my head around, only to come face to chest with someone. The chest, much like Jace's, is lean and muscled, but the shoulders are more wide-set than my husband's. I lift my eyes, only to be met with midnight black hair and charcoal eyes boring into me, like I'm meat and he's a man on the brink of starvation.

The man looks familiar, but I can't put a name to the face—not even if I wanted to.

"Um—," I raise my eyebrows, taking a clumsy step back from him. This movement appears to amuse him faintly, an unnerving smile showing off a set of pearly teeth. Is it wrong of me to have expected him to unveil a set of newly sharpened canines ready to tear into my corroded artery?

"Sebastian," he grins revoltingly, the light catching his sharply-angled face. Chiaroscuro is the only words I can think of to properly describe him. But if I had to think of another way to describe this…man, I would describe him as the villain in a young adult novel.

"Jace's new—you're the new guitarist?" The words leave me breathless, in an internal state of panic. Why he set me so much on edge?

"Sure am." This time, he smirks knowingly at me. I, with great difficulty, repress a shiver of disgust at the sight.

"Clary," I debate internally whether or not to hold out my hand for him to shake. And, me being me and not wanting to be rude, I stick out my pallid hand to him. He takes my hand, and instead of shaking it like a _normal_ person, Sebastian swoops low, pressing his frozen lips to my hand. The ends of his obsidian hair brush my hand, his calloused fingers—if I'm not imagining things—rub miniscule circles on said hand.

And after his lips linger for a moment much too long, he pulls away from me reluctantly. I desperately want to soak my hand in sanitizer now.

"Tequila," the bartender slides the small glass of amber liquid towards me from across the bar. I pick up the glass gratefully, feeling the coolness of it against my palm. But as soon as the smell hits me, I want to puke—it's that feeling when you see a food so gross and revolting you automatically feel an aversion to it. Except the dissimilarity being that the "gross and revolting" thing is liquor.

Sebastian's eyes still roam my body while I shift uncomfortably in front of him, my free hand going to the seam of my jeans, fingers running up and down said seam. "What is a woman like you doing alone at such a party?" He inquires, a hint of something I very much detest twinkling in his eyes.

What right did Sebastian, of all people, have to ask me such a question? "Firstly, _Sebastian_ —," I spit his name "—you need to _back up_."

He does exactly the opposite, closing whatever few centimetres of space between us we had. "Make me, _Sweetheart_." The supposed-to-be term of endearment rolls off of his tongue somewhere between a purr and a growl.

I laugh breathily at him. "Do you have any idea how _stupid_ you are?"

His expression darkens, like a cloud covering the sun. " _What_?" He demands through gritted teeth, eyebrows furrowed.

"Do you need me to repeat myself? You're stupid, an idiot, unintelligent, dim-witted, brainless, obtuse, slow on the uptake—do you know what Jace will do if he sees you hitting on me—," his hands grip my shoulders like a vice, eyes wild and desperate. The surrounding area goes silent, even the drunks staggering on their feet keep the noise to a minimum. My eyes are wide with shock, the absolute shock turning quickly to explosive anger and I'm ready to knee him where the sun does not—and should never shine—

A sun kissed fist connects with Sebastian's jaw, sending the shadowy man stumbling over his feet, endeavouring to retain his balance. He steadies himself just as another blow knocks him clean off his feet.

"I thought we went over this, Verlac?" Jace rolls his shoulders. " _Leave my wife alone_."

Sebastian laughs dryly, his voice cracking humiliatingly. "Leave my wife alone," he mocks, deepening his voice fractionally for added effect. "Isn't that cute? You think she won't leave you, especially when you're—," he breaks off, wiping at the fresh blood spewing from his nose, dribbling slowly down his mouth, on to his sharply-pointed chin. "Especially when you never treat her right—you don't act like her husband."

"Tell me, Verlac, what makes you think she would leave me for a scumbag like _you_?" Jace crouches beside him, eyes shooting daggers, daring him to say another word, to make another move.

"That's rich," Sebastian spits, laughing dryly, bitterly. "That's really _goddamn rich_ coming from you Herondale—because you're just as much a scumbag as I am. Want to know how I know?"

Before Sebastian can make another sound, Jace allows his fist to come down on Sebastian's nose, a cringe-worthy, stomach-twisting crack echoing in my ears. "Jace! _That's enough_." I step forward, voice firm even as in the deepest corner of my mind I'm whimpering like the helpless, weak little girl I am.

"I know because I watched you drink away your life in bar, after bar, after bar, after bar," Sebastian once again uses the back of his ashen hand to wipe away the dark, metallic-smelling substance from his surely broken nose. Jace's cheeks redden in anger, aureate eyes glowing with the promise of pain and everything and nothing all at once. This is a Jace with which I am unfamiliar. And I don't like this side of him, not at all.

" _Jace_!" The shrill parts the crowd like the red sea, allowing a pathway for the three people I haven't seen all night but could not possibly be happier to see right now.

Despite the ear-splitting shrill loosed by Isabelle, Jace does not budge. He continues to punch Sebastian, even as Simon shouts, "Jace, stop—Clary's watching!"

Yet, Jace continues bloodying the other man, paying the hysterical laughter escaping Sebastian no attention. If there was ever a good time for Sebastian to tap out, now is most certainly that time.

Jonathan emerges from the throng behind Isabelle. " _Hey_!" He snaps, taking long-legged strides until he reaches Jace, grabbing my husband by the arm, heaving him up and away from Sebastian with Simon's help. It takes both of them to hold my husband where he is—to restrain him from trying to pummel his band mate all over again.

Jace pants, Jonathan and Simon on either side of him, holding firmly his arms while Sebastian laughs tiredly through the blood flowing in a thick stream from his nose and busted lip. The dark-haired man hadn't fought back whatsoever, and there has to be a reason why—I just can't think of one.

I look back to where exactly I stood when Jace threw the first punch: amber liquid pools near the scattered glass of my broken shot glass. My shoulder ache softly where Sebastian's unusually long fingers gripped me.

"Clary," Simon's entwines his hand with my own, squeezing it reassuringly. "Everything is going to be fine, I promise."

I nod, leaning my head on the side of Simon's shoulder. "I know Si, I know."

* * *

"He wasn't drunk?"

"He was not drunk."

"And he beat that guy senseless because—?"

"Because he was hitting on me—?"I tell Simon, sitting side by side on a snow-free patch on my front lawn. Simon simply pushes up his glasses, giving me no reply as to why Jace felt the need to beat his band mate senseless.

It's late, though I'm not quite sure what time it is. What I do know for sure is that Jace is leaving in less than twelve hours, and Simon and I have been in "removed" from my own house under the reasoning that Jon and Isabelle's discussion with Jace is strictly business. Though what my brother has to do with that, I have no clue.

"You look tired," Simon says softly.

To which I reply, "So do you." I lay my head on Simon's shoulder for the second time tonight, my eyes heavy and slowly closing against my will—I want to see Jace at least one more time before he's gone for months.

"I am," his words are muffled by his yawn, and then he lays his head atop mine like we used to do so often years ago.

* * *

The sky is still dark, yet I lay covered in at least six blankets and Simon no longer beside me. No Jace, either. The thought makes my heart sink.

Sitting up, I push the blankets down to my waist, putting a tentative hand to my cheek, recalling last night's events. I yawn, rubbing at my sand-filled eyes. Running a hand through my matted curls, my eyes wander to Jace's empty pillow where a…a piece of paper lays, messily scrawled ink drawing attention away from the stark blank whiteness of the page.

It is with giddiness and nervous energy thrumming through my veins and excitement speeding my pulse that I seize the paper, my eyes skimming over the words.

 _Clary,_

 _All I really know is that you have exactly 53 freckles smattered across your cheeks. There is a scar above your left eyebrow from the time you fell out of an apple tree at Luke's farm when you were nine. You hate beauty pageants because you don't believe a person's self-worth should be judged on their looks. You like staying up late into the night painting until your hand aches and every inch of you is a different colour. You run your run your fingers up the seam of your jeans whenever you are upset or deeply focused._

 _It's easy to make you blush and laugh and pretty hard to make you cry. (I hate that I've managed to do that.)_

 _You like storms because the sound of the rain hitting your window makes you feel less alone._

 _I know that I am in love with you and these are the only things that I am absolutely sure of._

 _—_ _Jace_

* * *

 **Hey guys! What did you think? A lot of stuff happened in this chapter, but I really, really loved writing the ending (I got the idea from Pinterest).**

 **(I will re-edit this chapter later and add responses to all of your reviews!)**

 **Giannacar: I don't know, we'll have to see...**

 **ThatBlondeALB: Aw, thank you. And yes, Jace's ego would make it very easy to hit him. I sincerely apologize from the deepest part of my non-existent heart for making Jace leave Clary again.**

 **Page1of365: Hope you liked this chapter, and thank you so much-I'm glad I can inspire the ~*feels*~ for you.**

 **FanOfTheWrittenArt: They really, really do need to talk about their problems (I was thinking about sending them to a marriage councillor, but I don't know) I really enjoyed Shadowhutner as well, so you know, gonna go cry over Matt and stuff.**

 **Jia Ming: I'm not entirely sure why Clary chose to draw the fallen angel, I think it was just a preference of what she likes to draw. You are too sweet, stop, just-ah, I'm glad you love my stories.**

 **gabergirl: Oh, I so know what you mean but I will not say anything, my lips are sealed. And, I, too, really love Clary's clothes like damn-where can I get me these dresses?**

 **blossom146: I hope this chapter cleared up some of the confusion, but in case it didn't, Jace told everything to Clary (he's going on tour).**

 **Rejected Morgenstern: MY LIPS ARE SEALED!**

 **lunatic blondie: Once again: MY LIPS ARE SEALED!**

 **Yumna: I fixed it so that it should show all of your fantastic reviews. And I hope you got to see some of Clary and Jace's "normal selves." Hehe, I'm so evil.**

 **Me: I've read those fanfics too, and I do not want to be mean, but they really just bore me and yeah. And no, you are not to dumb to find it-lots f readers were unsure of what that meant.**

 **Janna: I know, I love seeing broken Jace (that sounds really bad) I really, really think everyone will like the wedding Prologue, you know, once I get on that.**

 **: I'm glad you liked my Pinterest board and the chapter! Hope this one was just as good!**

* * *

 **I'm going to try and keep updating more regularly after this week, and I also have an update for Fame, My Ghost, and I Hate You in the works, so keep your eyes peeled for that!**


	9. Times Up

**I apologize in adavance for any grammatical errors and such. I also apologize for the fact that this chapter is probably pretty sucky (especially the ending). Its kind of a filler chapter, but not really.**

 **I'm done. You're tired of reading this AN, I get it. Go, my youngling, and read on.**

* * *

I finish reading the letter that at one point would have made my eyes water and my lower lip quiver, I realize how truly, irreparably stupid I've been—not Sebastian, _me_. Me because I keep settling for less, because I let sweet letters like these persuade me to stay when he is gone for months and months.

I'm a fool, and it has finally caught up with me.

* * *

 ** _~Isabelle~_**

When three demanding knocks sound throughout my house, I know who it is, and why she's here instead of at the studio. I open the door, coming face to face with Clary and her mess of slowly darkening red curls. It doesn't look like she even brushed them before coming over. In fact, it looks like she did little more than change into a painted-stained sweater and jeans.

"Isabelle—," she stars, when I promptly cut her off, despite myself, hoping to avoid the inevitable.

"Oh, the _Isabelle_ sentence starter—this is going to be bad, isn't it?" It most certainly is not the time for my dry humour, but I absolutely do not want to see my best friend's broken expression—broken eyes—when I tell her what she needs to hear.

"Isabelle, we need to talk—about Jace." Clary's voice is soft, as if she already knows what awaits her after this conversation—pain and sadness and…betrayal.

"Jace, always about Jace. What do you want to know?" I lead Clary through the house, halting myself in the kitchen where I pour the steaming coffee into an immaculate mug.

"Well," I say quietly, only prevailing to thicken the tense air.

"What have you all been keeping from me? Like, last night—what was that all about? Why did Jace go absolutely berserk on Sebastian?" The words pour from Clary's mouth all in one breath, and despite myself, all I can hear through the fragile words are my own: _I'm going to break you, you are going to hate me—you are going to hate Simon, you are going to hate Jonathan, you are going to hate Jace. You will want nothing to do with us—you are going to spiral downwards like never before, you are going to ache_ —I cut off the toxic thoughts, shaking my head as I speak. "We're starting with last night—okay," I brush a strand of loose hair away from my face in one easy swoop, letting out a huff of air.

Clary's eyes already tell me she knows more than she thinks she does. It hurts me to know I'll hurt her in telling her what I do. "So…what happened last night…Sebastian got a broken nose and busted lip."

"Stop stalling, Isabelle," Clary snaps—a drastic change from her quiet, solemn, and somewhat pained mood.

"Calm down. All right—okay—so, last night Jace beat up his new lead guitarist Sebastian. Now _why_ is the important part, I suppose.

"Well, remember that bar fight he had a few weeks ago?" Her matted curls bounce as she nods in acknowledgement, green eyes patient once more. "He fought Sebastian then, too—and he said much worse things than he did last night Clary. Are you sure you want to know?"

"Tell me."

* * *

 _I don't think I ever recall Jace being so panicked, so flustered and un-composed. He's a mess, well and truly—it's clear in the way his eyes look into mine, it's so clear in the way his voice is croaky and breaks mid-sentence. Everything is suddenly so very crystal clear when I look down to find his hand fisted, knuckles red and raw and the skin split._

 _I cannot believe that I missed it all these months. I watched as he spiraled downwards, I watched and did nothing because I thought he was just stressed. How can I call myself his friend?_

 _"_ _Y-you c-can't t-t-tell C-Clary, p-please, Iz-Izzy," Jace stutters his words, tears gathering in the corners of his once lively and bright eyes. "S-she c-can't s-s-se-see m-me like this-s." I don't believe my ears. I haven't heard Jace stutter this badly since he prepared to ask Clary out for the first time, since him and Clary broke up when they were eighteen, since the day he proposed to Clary. What's more is he's asking something huge of me: to keep this from his wife, from my best friend._

 _"_ _Jace, I need to breathe. I need you to tell me what happened."I kneel before him, my hands clutching his wrists. I hope my eyes convey to him just how much I'm worried for him—for what's happening to him._

 _"_ _S-Sebastian, I beat him up."_

 _"_ _Why did you beat him up Jace?" I prod—I am as much his friend as his publicist, as his colleague._

 _"_ _He said he was going to s-steal C-Clary f-from m-m-me. That h-he w-was g-going t-to—," he stops himself, screwing his eyes closed. If seeing him in this much pain causes a vicious ache in my chest, I don't want to imagine what it would do to Clary._

 _"_ _He was going to what?"_

 _"_ _I-I won't s-say it," Jace shakes his head like a child refusing their vegetables. "I c-can't l-lose h-her Isabelle. She—she's all I have."_

 _"_ _Okay, just breathe Jace. I won't tell her, but you have to—you have to tell her eventually." The only response I get is a terse nod of his sculpted head before he goes back to staring blankly ahead at the clock hanging on the wall across from him, his breathing heavy._

* * *

I could swear Clary's previously pale skin goes a few shades lighter as I let the last syllable of my story ring out through the virtually empty kitchen.

"He—Jace didn't tell you what Sebastian said?" She asks me, wide eyes searching my own.

"No," I shake my head, midnight hair swaying in front of my face like a curtain. "He didn't."

"What about when he got drunk out his mind? Was there a good reason for that besides his impending tour?" Clary challenges, her eyes flickering shut, her copper lashes reflecting the dim light shining overhead.

"Clary, I don't think you realize how much it hurts Jace to leave you alone all the time—especially when he _knows_ it hurts you."

"Then why doesn't he say anything?!" Clary demands, voice wild and ragged and hurt. "Why does it seem like I'm just—just some stupid little girl grasping at the strings of what used to be?"

I tilt my head, my eyes refusing to look away from the sweater devouring her slight figure. It just isn't like her to wear sweaters like that.

"Clary, just take a breath, okay?" She flares her nostrils and narrows her eyes accusingly as though I'd just seriously offended her, but does as I say.

"I'm sorry Iz, I just—I'm really tired and stressed and—," she stops herself mid-sentence, giving me an odd stare. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You don't usually wear sweaters," I state softly, staring at the incredibly baggy sweater that I'm positive belonged to her brother or Jace once upon a time.

"What—," she looks down at the baggy piece of fabric. "I hardly see how my choice of clothing is relevant."

"It's not, I just—you never wear sweaters like that," I shake my head at her, worrying at my bottom lip. "Why _are_ you wearing it?"

"Nothlsftsmh," she mumbles, burying her mouth in the thick fabric of the sweater, leaning her back against the granite counter behind her.

"Could you repeat that? Maybe in _English_ this time?" I prompt, motioning with my hand for her to speak.

"Nothing else fits me," she says, pronouncing each word slowly, quietly, her eyes refusing to meet mine. And then to my utter surprise, Clary barks a dry laugh. "Ironic, is it not? I couldn't keep anything down and now hardly anything in my closet fits me."

 _No_.

No. She can't be—but what if…

"Could you be—are you pregnant?" I blurt very uncharacteristically. Normally, everything I say is methodical—not without purpose—planned and precise.

Her eyes bulge. " _What_?" Her lips hang parted a few millimetres, light emerald eyes searching my eyes for amusement, for that laughter I'm sure she is more than familiarized with—but nothing. That was by no means a joke, and I have no intentions to pretend it was.

"Are you pregnant?" I repeat the question. This time, it is I that cannot meet her eyes, for whatever reason.

"No—I don't know!" Clary tugs harshly on her roots, looking much unlike the Clary I grew up with. But she hasn't been that girl for a long while, and I do not—will not—that against her. She has grown and changed, and so have I.

"It makes perfect sense, Clary. Remember when you were so sick? That was probably _morning sickness_. Mood swings, all your clothes not fitting. It is decided, you're pregnant."

"You can't just _decide_ I'm pregnant, Izzy!"

" _But it makes sense_!"

Clary lets out a screech so lethal a banshee would envy the sound. "That means nothing! Maybe I just had the flu and now I'm getting fat…or something."

I stare pointedly at Clary. "In all the years I have known you, Clarissa; you have eaten your weight in food a hundred times over and never gained a pound."

"Maybe it's catching up with me," Clary crosses her arms stubbornly, looking purposefully away from me and out the kitchen window. We could keep at this all day, recycling our previous arguments and using them again and again.

"If you're not pregnant, then why don't we get a test?" I raise an eyebrow at the redhead, knowing she can't decline the challenge. Clary has never been one to back away from obstacles, from challenges, and I know she'd rather be damned than start now.

"If that's what it takes."

* * *

 ** _~Clary~_**

I stare disdainfully at the plastic stick sitting innocently on Isabelle's bathroom counter. It hasn't done anything to me, not really. Why is that I fear what the stick might reveal so much?

Isabelle knocks softly on the door. "Clary, times up."

I gulp. Why am I so _terrified_?

The stick below me blurs, my hands shaking pathetically. The gasp is definitely audible, for Isabelle pushes open the bathroom door. "What's the verdict?" She asks her fingers crossed.

"I-I'm pregnant," I stare down at the plastic stick, two prominent pink lines staring back at me. "I'm pregnant." Looking up at Isabelle I know she's not sure how to react. "I'm _pregnant_ , Izzy!" I grab Isabelle's hands, squeezing them tightly, the plastic stick lying forgotten on the pristinely white tiles below us.

"You're _pregnant_ ," Izzy squeals, bouncing on the heels of her sock-clad feet. "I'm going to be an _aunt_ , Simon's going to be an _uncle_ , and Jace is going to be a _father_." The words cause pause from the both of us. The unspoken question resides heavily on both our shoulders, tainting the air.

 _Does Jace_ want _to be a father?_

"Clary—this—this is amazing, this is just…amazing!" Isabelle's eyes are lit up, her happiness all but shining right out of the charcoal orbs. "We need to make you a doctor's appointment." She says suddenly, dropping my hands. "You've got to be at least a month along—," she starts when the shrill ring of my cell echoes around the bathroom, the sound bouncing off of every surface it seems. "You answer that, I'll be making you a doctor's appointment," Isabelle waggles her eyebrows at me, giving my hands one last reassuring squeeze before moon walking out of the room. I roll my eyes at her display.

Picking up my phone, I smile widely, proceeding to press the device against my ear.

"Hey."

"Hey, how's the tour going?" I bend over, picking up the pregnancy test, though I'm cautious of which end I grab, for I did _pee_ on this stick of plastic.

"It's long; I want to ditch this tour bus." Jace groans, and I, in response, give a few giggles.

"You signed a contract," I tease, deepening my voice to sound like that of his grouch of a manager, Hodge Starkweather. Hodge doesn't like me much—actually, quite frankly, I don't think he likes me at all. I scowl at the memory of his reaction to my and Jace's engagement: " _She's just a money-hungry, fame-seeking_ —," I stop myself from reliving the rest of the memory.

"How are you doing?" Jace asks suddenly, surprising me with the gentleness of his tone.

I gaze down giddily at the stick in my hand. "Good," another few giggles escape me.

" _Good_?" I can practically _hear_ Jace raising one of his fair eyebrows at me.

"Yes, _good_. I have something to give you," I tell him, coming up with a brilliant idea. Because how cool would it be if I sent an ultrasound picture to Jace? I think he'd get a kick out of that.

"Hmm, what could it possibly be?" Jace muses.

"I'm not telling you," I sing-song, readjusting my grip on my cell.

Jace huffs loudly in to the receiver, to which I laugh lightly. The conversation continues on, that is until Jace's manager intervenes, shouting half-heartedly—yet somehow threateningly—at my husband. "I'll call you later," Jace promises, quick to add, "I'll call you when the plane lands—I love you."

"I love you too."

* * *

Isabelle drums her fingers on the table beside her chair across from me. The magazines move a few centimetres every time she accidentally bumps her leg against said table. I think the black-haired girl might just be more nervous than I am—which seems pretty impossible.

A nurse pushes open the double doors at the end of the white corridor, her pale blue scrubs seeming an outrageous choice in such an immaculately white world. She stops where the corridor opens up, expanding into the near empty waiting room, focusing intently on her clipboard, using her pen to skim down the page. I wonder if there's even anything _on_ that page, or if she's just stalling.

"Clarissa Herondale?" She calls, eyes roaming the room despite the fact that she—and most probably all of the two other women sitting in the uncomfortably hard hospital chairs—know who I am. I give the nurse a thin-lipped smile, anyways, taking Isabelle's offered hand.

"That's her," Isabelle pulls me over to the nurse, speaking before I even have the chance to open my mouth.

The corner of the nurse's mouth twitches. "All right, come with me."

She leads us down three different corridors, each one going a different direction than the last, until we ultimately arrive by a room with an ultrasound machine. "Just lie down, and the Doctor will be with you shortly."

"Thank you," I say my voice slightly hoarse from my previous silence. The nurse nods her head politely, turning on her heel to leave.

Isabelle peeks out the door, checking both ways to make sure no one is coming—though I have no idea as to _why_. "You heard the woman, lay down." Isabelle shoos me to the chair with a hasty gesture of her hand.

I comply, lying down on the bed. The action relives a soft, yet persistent ache in my lower back. Who knew how much of a difference a week could make? I sure as hell didn't.

Isabelle licks her chapped lips, proceeding to bite the lower one. "Are you excited?" Isabelle asks suddenly.

I stare dumbly at her a moment. "I guess?"

"I was really nervous when I got pregnant with Max, I remember," Isabelle smiles reassuringly at me. "And even when I saw him for the first time on the ultrasound thing—machine, I was worried I'd be a horrible mom. But I swear to you Clary, when I finally got to hold him in my arms, I knew I already loved him more than anything else…More than anything ever."

I giggled for whatever reason. "Did you love him more than Simon?"

Isabelle shoots me a devilish grin. "It's a secret," she holds a finger to her lips, letting the grin and her finger fall when the doctor walks in to the room, her lab coat swaying slightly behind her.

She sticks out her hand to Isabelle, and then to me. "I'm Charlotte."

* * *

"I'm going to tell you now; this is going to be cold." Charlotte applies a blue-hued gel to my abdomen, and I hiss at the surely below-freezing-point temperature of the sticky substance.

I rest one hand on my chest, the other rests in the empty space beside me, Isabelle's hand covering the latter. Charlotte moves a wand over my stomach, her soft brown eyes fixed on the small screen in front of her—one that I hope I'll soon be able to view.

The Doctor turns to beam at me. "Would you like to see your baby?"

I nod eagerly.

"I am so ready to see my niece," Isabelle grins toothily.

"How do you know it's going to be a girl?" I raise my eyebrows at Isabelle. "It could be a boy, and you'd be left with no one to play dress-up with."

Isabelle snorts. "I have you," she ruffles my hair affectionately. I swat her hand away hastily.

"No, you don't. If you want to play dress-p with someone so badly, dress up your _own_ kid."

"As if," Isabelle retorts. "He doesn't even stay still long enough more me to brush his hair," she mumbles, huffing.

Charlotte chuckles at our display. "You won't be able to find out the gender today—no, you're only two months along. This is usually the time when most women get their first checkup. Right now—," Charlotte shifts the small screen so that Isabelle and I can see it as well as her. "—you're baby is about the size of a kidney bean."

"That's _it_?" Isabelle's eyebrows very nearly touch her hairline.

"What do you mean _,_ 'that's it?' You had a kid!" I point out, just ever so slightly exasperated with my friend.

"Really Clary, I hadn't noticed the six year-old walking around my house." She deadpans, to which I roll my eyes, letting my attention rest once again on my doctor.

"You should come in again when you hit around sixteen weeks," Charlotte explains. "And by that time, if we're lucky, I'll be able to tell you the sex of the baby."

This news made Isabelle quite happy, as she let out a high-pitched squeal. Human beings should not be capable of getting their voice that high. "Oh, Clary—I can't wait! Do you think you're having a girl, or a boy?"

And even as Charlotte passed me some paper towel to clean the gel off of my stomach and abdomen area, Isabelle was still prattling off questions and ideas for the nursery and the sizable playroom I could have for the baby with that "colossal house with all that space you don't need."

"Have a good day, Clarissa. Please, don't hesitate if you have any questions or concerns," Charlotte smiles, seeing us off down the painfully white corridor, the stench of sanitizer pressing heavily upon me.

"Do you think we should start setting up the nursery _now_?" Isabelle wonders aloud. These words are the absolute opposite of music to my ears…the words are more like nails scraping down a chalkboard, or a chorus of dying cats. Or a combination of both. Probably both.

"I think we should go home, Izzy; my back is killing me, I'm tired and I'm kind of hungry."

Isabelle laughs—the witch. "Get used to it."

* * *

My back aches for the rest of January, continuing well into February. And as I approach the sixteen week mark, I am moodier than I think I ever have been in my whole existence. And I am basically sleeping my life away. And I drink my weight in milkshakes at the very least, twice every week.

Not to mention the fact that my brother decided this would be the best week to crawl out from whatever rock it is that he lives under to come and visit me.

"Sissy, you in here?" Jonathan calls, striding into the kitchen, hair hanging in his eyes as per usual. "Jon? How did _you_ get in to my house? Do you have a key or something?" I ask, taking a long, greedy slurp from my milkshake.

"And when did _you_ blow up like a balloon?"

I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest, feigning hurt. "Are you calling me fat?"

"Never, Sissy," Jonathan winks at me, moving to stand in front of me. His leans his back on the counter, gripping the edge of it so hard his veins are just barely visible under his skin; blue lightning striking against an ashen sky.

I roll my eyes.

"No, but seriously—you're only wearing baggy clothes and you've made me go get you milkshakes at least once at day—and just the fact that you're consuming them at such a rapid rate. Well, you're either dumping them down the drain and this is just some cruel, cruel prank on me—,"

" _Oh so cruel_ ," I mock him.

He glares at me before continuing. "—or you're drinking them all."

"Are you stupid? I'm drinking them—how dare you suggest I let a perfectly delicious milkshake go to waste?!"

"So," Jonathan clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, quite manifestly nervous. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Sissy?"

"Oh," I nod my head, gulping down the last of my milkshake, swallowing it as slowly as humanly possible just to drive my brother near the brink of insanity. "I'm pregnant." The look on his face is certainly worth million words—maybe even more.

* * *

 **Hey guys! Giannacar was the first to guess it: Clary's pregnant! Who's excited? I'm excited as hell!**

 **Do you think she's going to have a boy or a girl? What about twins or not?(Personally, I'm not quite sure what the baby [or babies] is going to be.) Tell me what you think!**

 **Right now, I'm trying to speed up the time that passes, just because I like writing in real time (like in the end I say it's February, because I know I might not be able to update until February, and I like keeping up to date).**

 **Luvmortalinstruments: Glad you like it. :)) I hope this one was just as good.**

 **Page1of365: I think, considering the circumstances and her age, Clary is handling this quite good. (And if it wasn't clear-er in this chapter, yes, Jace did leave to go on tour.)**

 **Guest: All right. So, NO JACE DID NOT HIT CLARY. No one hit Clary (I went back and edited it, mostly because I thought about it, and it really seemed a little extreme considering what part I want Sebastian to play in this story). Jace is also not an alcoholic, just stressed and he doesn't know how to handle it. And there most certainly is a reason why Jon and Izzy talked to Jace and not Clary-to be revealed in later chapters.**

 **ThatBlondeALB: I hope the flashback in this chapter gave some more insight into Jace. I hate having to make Jace leave again just when things are starting to get better between him and Clary, but, alas, it needs to happen because a) Jace is a rock star and celebrities are always being exploited by the media and need to do things they don't necessarily want to do in order to keep fans happy and all that and b) to continue weaving this so intricately woven tale further, I needed him to leave again (this time there really is a good reason for Jace leaving other than a few random shows-he is one tour).**

 **Guest: I'm going to be honest with you here. I did not realize that I was writing such a toxic relationship until I was at least four chapters in. At that point I had already formed a rough story line that I wanted to stick to and I really liked how the story was going. Secondly, believe it or not, I'm younger than most of you would probably guess, and so it just really didn't register in my head that Jace was being emotionally abusive. And you are completely right: no matter what Jace does, he will never be able to undo the years of damage he has caused. Trust me when I say I have a plan and all should work out.**

 **Yumna: Jace was adorable, wasn't he? I enjoy writing happy, fluffy scenes but I sometimes just can't get them out of my head because I have a much, much easier time writing angst-y, sad type things. I haven't the slightest idea why though. Glad you loved it. :))**

 **Ads S: Oh trust me, Jace has done something-he always has, but maybe it isn't half as bad as you think. (Right now, I do not know what it is, but trust me, I'll think up _something_.) I believe that letter was one of my favourite things besides the first few chapters to write. :) Also, I read the first chapter of Cigarette, and loved it. **

**Janna: I went back and edited Chapter 8, and tried to fix some of the messier parts. I hope my writing didn't give you too hard of a time. :))**

 **Guest: As I said previously: I loved writing the letter as much as you all seemed to like reading it. I did not, however, enjoy all that much writing the fight scene.**

 **.suffice: I'm excited to see how the story develops, too. Because it's one thing when you roughly plan it out in your mind or on paper, but to actually bring it to life is another. I hope you enjoyed the chapter despite the sucky ending.**

 **Guest: I cannot, and will not promise anything as of now. Sorry.**

 **gabergirl: Aha. I was hoping someone might pick up the "my shirt used to fit better" comment. I'm definitely going to check out some of your stories (I didn't know you wrote!) This chapter was certainly one of the bigger reveals in the story-and just writing Isabelle's reactions was so much fun.**

 **AsraStar: Oh, thank you. :)) Here's that update!**

* * *

 **Guess what?**

 **The next chapter will be in Jace's POV! Maybe even Jon's! I'm excited, I want to get my hands dirty digging around in Jace's head, learning more about him in the process.**

 **So look forward to that, and until next time, I'll be reading Heir of Fire by Sarah J. Maas and awaiting the next installment of the Red Queen series.**

 **Addio! (That's Italian for Bye, I think-I used Google Translate so...)**


	10. Blank

**Hey guys! Not gonna lie, this is kind of a filler for the big fallout to come soon. Anyways, as per usual, it's un-beta-ed, so any and all grammatical errors are my own.**

 **But This one is the first chapter with Jace's POV, who's excited?**

 **Go forth, my younglings, explore the ever-puzzling Herondale brain.**

* * *

My plane landed not even an hour ago, and I'm already being shuffled off to my next concert.

My mind isn't centered—far from it, actually. All of my thoughts are on Clary, and what more she could possibly give me. God knows she has already given me _far_ more than I deserve. If anything, I should be the one giving her something. I hastily scribble a note to myself on my arm to send Clary flowers or something.

" _Oh, Mr. Herondale_ , you're doing a signing after the show."

" _Oh, Mr. Herondale_ , your manager would like a word with you."

" _Oh, Mr. Herondale_ , you're going to have to step it up a pace."

" _Oh, Mr. Herondale_ , you'll be back in the States by the end of March, should we have no delays."

" _Oh, Mr. Herondale_ , Mr. Starkweather really would like a word with you— _immediately_."

"Kid, get over here." Hodge snaps, his cloudy gray eyes narrowing, daring me to object. I do no such thing—mostly because I don't feel like threatening Hodge's job right at this very moment.

"What is it, Hodge?"

"You ready for tonight? This could be one of the biggest performances of your career." He gestures widely with his hands, cracked and dry skin sagging ever so slightly off of frail-looking bones. The only thing, though, is that Hodge says the same thing before nearly every. Single. Show.

I stare blankly and unblinkingly at the older man. "And?"

"That's all you have to say to me, Kid? Without me, you'd be stuck working some office job eight hours a day and singing covers at seedy karaoke bars by night." He barks out a dry and humourless laugh. "What d'ya think about _that_?" He grins at me with his yellowing teeth after a few beats of silence. "That's what I thought."

Hodge leaves me with a rough clap on my shoulder, coughing violently in to the elbow of his jacket. I watch his retreating back for a moment, disgust coercing my upper lip to curl. If he wasn't so good at what he does, Hodge would have been fired long ago—hell, I probably should have fired him by now, especially after the things he has said to my wife.

Turning away from Hodge's retreating form, I pull out my phone. My lock screen shows over a hundred notifications, whether they be from Twitter, Instagram or simply an email from my team. I promised Clary I would call her when my plane landed in Paris, and that is one promise I intend to keep—no matter how many plane rides I endure during this tour.

She picks up on the third ring. "Jace," she says breathlessly into the receiver.

"What are you doing?" I smile despite myself at the sound of her voice, at the sound of her shuffling around; I wonder if she had been painting?

"Oh, uh, Jon and I were just having a…discussion—and then he choked on water, so you know."

I laugh throatily. "Tell me he didn't keel over in our kitchen."

Clary scoffs. I can just picture her with her arms crossed over her chest and a slightly amused expression gracing her face. "You would've liked that I bet."

"Hey!" I protest, earning a few odd looks from passerby. "I like your brother… _sometimes_."

This time, Clary snorts loudly. "Liar."

"Fine, you caught me," I concede, only to have Helen tap my shoulder, telling me I need to get ready for the show—that "starts in twenty minutes!"

"I've got to go. I love you."

"Love you too."

* * *

I am permanently blinded. Who knew in a room so well lit you needed the flash on your camera to max? I certainly did not.

And as I scribble words mindlessly onto a scrap of paper I found at the bottom of my suitcase, I hear the pilot: "We will be taking off shortly." I don't think I've ever been happier to leave Europe before. At least the last stop in Europe was some place nice.

I hum to myself, a tune I've never heard before. I feel eyes on me, narrow, beady gray eyes to be more precise. Hodge does his job well, I will give him that, but otherwise, the man isn't worth more than Sebastian. And if that doesn't say a lot about his character, I have no idea what will.

I once again find my eyes trained on the paper, it, along with my left hand, are decorated with ink smudges.

 _"_ _Darling," you said._

 _"_ _We're a train wreck."_

 _"_ _Sweetheart," I said._

 _"_ _Train wrecks always make the front page."_

The words sizzle in my veins, but I just cannot think of anything else to fit with them. Frustrated, I fist my hand, dropping the pen previously gripped in said hand. Normally, when this sort of thing happens, I crumple up the page and toss it as far away as I can. For whatever reason, though, some madly infuriating reason, I won't allow myself to crumple up the page and let it end up like many other failed song-writing attempts. Maybe it's because I know who the song is about, and crumpling up the page and throwing it away would be too much like throwing away _her_.

Just like the first song I released about her, the lyrics do not come easily to me, and I feel writing this one will be a long, tedious, brain-wracking process. But still, I pick my pen back up and stare down at the sheet of paper before me. _Write something_ , I scream at myself. But the pen is still in my hand, my eyes watching the city below become a mere speck as the plane climbs higher and higher.

 _And I can remember everything about that day:_

 _How the rain pressed heavy down on us,_

 _And how it wasn't just rain_

 _That poured down your cheeks_

I tap out a rhythm on the tray table on which the paper rests. I could use the first lines as the chorus? Or maybe the bridge instead?

"Get some sleep, Kid." Hodge barks out, startling me. And when I refuse to look up, keeping my eyes trained on the paper in front of me, I see the ugly line through the words that fought so violently to stay locked up in my head.

"The last thing I need is a rock star with bags under his eyes," Hodge starts.

"A little late for that, isn't it, Hodge?" I bite back the rest of the words that I want to spit at the man. I wanted to fire Sebastian—hell; I wanted to have him hung or better yet, burned at the stake. Though, as Isabelle informed me so graciously over the phone, I cannot have another man hung for hitting on my wife. Nor can I have him hung and or burned at the stake for being his complacent, moronic self. _Well, there goes my Saturday_ —but Hodge told me no, period. _Why_? Because where are we going to get a guitarist who knows all of my songs on such short notice? So—Hodge's words, definitely not mine—unless I can pull a guitarist who knows all of my songs out my pocket, I can't fire him. Well, I can, it would just be a stupid, immature move; I can't let Sebastian know that reliving our previous conversations make my veins burn with a certain fire—no, not fire. Let's go with murderous instinct. Yes, I like that _much_ better.

"Don't start with me, Herondale."

I shake my head, turning my attention back to the paper sitting with an ugly scar down its centre.

* * *

 ** _~Clary~_**

The bump between my hips has grown much more than I expected it to. Then again, I've never done this before so I wouldn't know. And just imagine Isabelle's sheer glee when I told her next to none of my clothes fit me anymore—and that she needs to go and get me maternity clothes. It sounds stupid that I've been sending Jon and Izzy out to do things for me, but I don't want any paparazzi getting a lucky shot of the rather large bump I'm sporting. I want it to be a genuine surprise when I send Jace an ultrasound picture from my next appointment.

And then once Jace knows, I can start going out for milkshakes whenever I want instead of having to beg my brother to go and get me one—or twenty.

"Have you started thinking of names?" Jonathan asks, staring not-so-secretively at my stomach.

"I have _not_. Why? And before you ask, I will not name him or her after you. Jonathan is not a 'fantastical' name. You know why?"

"Why?" Jonathan leans forward, elbows perched precariously on his knees, eyebrows raised and hidden underneath his mess of moon-white hair.

"Because people can call you Jonny, or moronic hermit." I grin at him, tugging up my blanket until it rests just underneath of my chin.

"Ouch, Sissy," Jonathan pouts. "That hurt me right in my manly ego. I think I'll need a band-aid for this wound, no, scratch that—I need _stitches_. You'll have to nurse me back to health."

I roll my eyes, turning back to the television. Despite our constant banter, I enjoy Jon's presence. At least I'm not all alone this time around. Isabelle and Simon check in occasionally, though I know both of them are being kept busy by their jobs.

"You know," Jon stretches out his legs, putting his hands behind his head. "I never thought you'd wait so long to have kids." He drawls.

"What do you mean?" I turn my body, angled so that I can see his face but my body is still covered by the blanket.

"I mean that you're so maternal—well, you were before you got married. I always wondered what happened and then I got to know Jace, and then you bought the studio."

I know what my brother means, but I'm not entirely sure what Jace has to do with me being maternal. I sigh and turn my attention back to the brightly flashing screen in front of me, and that's what we do for the rest of the day: marathon crappy TV shows. The silence is comfortable though it feels as though my brother left something unsaid. Maybe it's best I don't know what he wanted to say.

But as I'm learning so well these days, ignorance is anything but bliss.

* * *

I kind of am not enjoying life right now; the constant craving for one thing or another; the pain in my back; the occasional feeling of being off-balance. And I'm not going to even mention Isabelle's constant shopping trips for maternity clothes. But, honestly, why would I wear a skirt in March, especially with my stomach looking the way it does?

As Charlotte (or Dr. Branwell as she later introduced herself) pulls the wand over the skin of my stomach, which is beginning to stretch taught over the small, growing lump, and I hear the loud, echoing heartbeat of my child— _our_ child, my chest swells and the backs of my eyes sting with oncoming tears, I can't say I'm not enjoying life anymore. I'm going to be a _mom_. In the end, all the pain and discomfort and ridiculous cravings will have been worth it. A _mom_. The word thrills me beyond belief.

"You're roughly seventeen weeks along," Charlotte stares up at the monitor, the corners of her mouth tilting downwards ever so slightly, like a flower beginning to wilt. "Your baby should weigh about the same as a turnip right now, though it depends, really, because of how small you are yourself."

"A _turnip_ , Clary! My niece is the same weight as a turnip." Isabelle grips my left hand tightly, an excited shiver running through her.

I look at her. "Izzy, may I remind you that you, yourself, have done this before?"

"Oh hush, Maxie is _six_ ; ergo he's not an adorable little baby anymore."

"You could just have another baby."

"No way. Being pregnant once was more than enough, thank you."

I shake my head, turning my attention back to Charlotte, the ghost of a smile upon her lips. "I could tell you the sex of your baby—or, rather, _babies_."

My eyes go wide. _Babies_?

"You mean—as in twins?"

"Definitely as in twins." Charlotte confirms, smiling softly, though I can see the excitement dancing in her brown eyes.

"Clary," Isabelle nudges me softly. "Do you _know_ what this _means_? I get _two_ nieces! Not just _one_ , but _two_ , Clarissa Adele! Two!"

Charlotte laughs. "Not necessarily. But I can tell you what you're having, which is fairly lucky, as most women don't know until closer to twenty weeks and sometimes later."

I nod enthusiastically. When I was younger I would have been thrilled and much more at the thought of having twins, and now that it's actually a reality—now that I'm living it, I don't know what to do. I'm so happy I could burst, it feels like sometimes, and then other times I worry about whether or not Jace actually wants to be a father—because in all actuality, Izzy and I are just assuming he'll be as thrilled as myself…Or, at least happy about it.

Charlotte moves the wand around my stomach, motioning for us to look at the screen. We do. "There," she says, "is your little boy—," she moves the wand around some more. "And there is your little girl." Isabelle lets out a very high-pitched squeal of excitement. I have said it before, and I will say it a hundred times more: no human being should be able to reach that frequency.

"A boy, _and_ a girl," I breathe, feeling my face cracking in to a wide smile. I have a feeling that I won't be able to drop the smile for a long while.

* * *

Isabelle dropped me off at home, insisting that a woman in my "condition" shouldn't be driving. I'm only four months along, and I can only how coddled I'll be when I'm actually waddling around. The thought makes me smile, because it is finally clicking in my stubborn head that Jace is not the only person in my life; I have other people who care immensely about me. And I'm so lucky, not to mention thankful.

On the kitchen counter lays a bright blue sticky note, on it Jon's scratchy writing. He went out— _finally_. I thought he'd become a full-on hermit if he stayed cooped up in my house anymore. I say full-on because when Jon isn't in New York, I never hear from him and he's always behind on the news, it seems. So, in summary, my dearest brother is, in fact, a hermit.

I can't believe I just wasted a whole train of thought on my brother being a hermit.

And yet I did.

Shrugging off my jacket and slinging it over the back of the couch, I grab a blank paper from the printer in Jace's office. I'm still not entirely sure as to _why_ he has an office. While I'm there, I steal a pen from the metal caddy perched on the edge of his wooden desk. Next, I decide that walking back down the stairs to the kitchen is too far a walk, and, frankly, quite pointless, as there's a perfectly good desk to my left.

I sit down in the plush chair behind Jace's desk, setting the black-ink pen to the paper and trying my best not to sound corny.

* * *

I bounce on the heels of my feet, my hands staying relatively still as I press down the stamp onto the white envelope, marred only by my smudged handwriting.

"You're _sure_ he'll get it?" I turn to Isabelle who rolls her eyes at me. I've asked her the same question at least six times now.

"I'm positive Clary, and if he doesn't, I'll _personally_ castrate whoever screws up. Does that make you feel better?" With her arms crossed over her chest and one hip jutted out, Isabelle could say she was a supermodel and everyone and anyone would believe her (not that she didn't already look like one).

"Not really. The absolute last thing I want is for this letter to fall into the wrong hands and the media is the way he finds out." I shake my head and a few strands of hair come loose from my ponytail, falling irritatingly in my line of sight.

"Clarissa, I could feed you that exact same sentence and I know it wouldn't stop you from mailing it."

"You're right, I'm mailing it."

"Thank Go—"

"But what if he _doesn't_ get it?" I worry at my bottom lip, purposefully avoiding Isabelle's annoyed glower. "What if he do—"

Isabelle snatches the letter from my hands, shoving it rather violently into a red-painted mailbox. "There," she wipes her hands against the fabric of her jeans, proceeding to wrap one of her polished hands around my baggy jacket-clad arms and pull me out of the post office and across the mall to a baby store. "It's done. Over. Finished."

I know I should feel relieved that it's done and over with, and not to say I'm not, but if the picture enclosed inside of that envelope somehow miraculously falls into the hands of the press, I don't know what I'll do.

It isn't like I can't handle the press as wild and crazed as they are now, but if they found out "Hollywood's Hottest Couple" was pregnant…It would be a publicity nightmare. One I definitely, hands down do not want to endure.

* * *

 ** _~Jace~_**

I know Helen is saying _something_. I just don't know what—I can't focus. I can't concentrate. Nothing of the sort.

I can _always_ focus. _Always. Always. Always_.

But not today—something feels off, though I can't put my finger on _what_. The feeling of not knowing frustrates me beyond comprehension, but _why_ —I just don't know. I don't know and it sucks. I don't think I've used that word in years, but, honestly, there isn't another way to describe how…sucky the feeling is.

I lead the hoard of people, rushing around behind me, trying to act like they're ready for the show and have everything together. I know they're not, but I am—I need to burn off this frustration.

Hodge looms ahead, shouting at a stage hand, a white envelope in his hand, folding and crumpling with how much he's squeezing it. "What's that?" I nod my head at the envelope.

Hodge cuts himself off, the stage hand running off. "Oh, this?" Something about the handwriting, looping and smudged, seems so, _so_ familiar. "Just a bill." Hodge clears his throat, shoving the envelope into the breast pocket of his beaten-up green blazer.

"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow at him, holding his stare as I approach him. "That must be why someone wrote on the outside of the envelope?"

"Mind your own business, Kid," the older man barks, his gray hair seeming to grow grayer and thinner as the seconds pass. The lines in his weathered face seem to go deeper; the crinkles by his mouth from all his constant frowning become prominent, as do the creases in his forehead when he proceeds to frown at me.

I open my mouth, ready to tell him to hand over the envelope—the looping handwriting bites at me from my memory—when Helen calls out "show time!"

And just like that, my mind goes blank. Whatever it was, it couldn't have been that important anyways—right?

* * *

 **All right. You want an excuse for the lack of updates? Here we go: so firstly, school. Secondly, I've been reading (I'm almost finished the Pretty Little Liars series!) And thirdly, I just didn't _want_ to update. I'd look at my laptop and shrug and just think _I don't care_. And I don't know why. I think mostly because this chapter is kind of a filler - that's what it felt like to me, anyways.**

 **: You guessed right! TWINS PEOPLE! TWINS! And as for Jace finding out...I'm an evil, evil person.**

 **Guest: To answer your question, NO IZZY DID NOT TELL CLARY EVERYTHING! I'll give that away.**

 **ThatBlondeALB: Izzy made such a big deal about the conversation between her and Jace because (please note, he was NOT drunk, just really scared and just...yeah) for Jace to be so utterly terrified about something, is very out of character for him. He's, well, Jace. And he doesn't like to show his feelings - but just because you can't see them, doesn't mean they aren't there. I promise you, there is something there.**

 **WinchesterSurvivor: I'm not going to tell you what Seb said, because it would spoil my carefully woven tale. I also will not tell you if Jace cheated. (But I will tell you that he loves Clary a lot more than he shows.)**

 **Guest: 'Tis a shame I didn't enjoy writing the fight scene. But, oh boy, I'm going to enjoy the "fallout chapter."**

 **It's Kris: Jon is hands down one of my favourite side characters (besides Izzy, of course). I would love to get to know him more if the opportunity reveals itself, but trust me, he'll be sticking around for a little while longer.**

 **gabergirl: From what I read, I saw real potential in your writing. And if you do have strong inspiration for writing and just keep at it, you'll learn to keep a plot going and develop characters and correct your errors naturally. Trust me. If you've read I Hate You, you'll see that my writing gets progressively better (aside from the first two chapters, 'cause I edited those suckers) because I was just kind of learning as I went, and reading definitely helps, too, because you can use things other people use in their styles and sort of implement them into your own style until...Poof! One day you realize you _do_ have your own style. **

**PJOAAR5TMIHPDIA4599: TWINS! I know, originally, it was not going to be twins, but then I couldn't decide between a boy or a girl and...well twins happened. Yes, it is beyond cliché, but I don't care. The babies are going to be cuter than heck and grow up and be pretty - with maybe not so pretty personalities.**

 **Golden Herondale: We'll see...**

 **Page1of365: I know! (Insert banshee screech)**

 **Ads S: Throne of Glass is just...ugh. Sarah J Maas is going to _kill_ me, I swear on the Gods. (No spoilers, I'm just starting the fourth book.) Did you hear about TOG number five coming out in September? What about the colouring book coming out in the Fall sometime? And, did you ever ship Celaena and Dorian? I did, and then I shipped her and Chaol, and now I'm caught between Rowan and Chaol...Christ almighty. And about Jon...I cannot foresee him to be very "happy go-lucky" in the future, either... **

**Janna: I honestly think you're going to love how Jace finds out Clary's pregnant...God I'm so evil...**

 **Yumna: As you read, she wanted to wait to get an ultrasound picture of better quality and until she knew the sex of her baby...babies. I just wanted to clarify that Clary got pregnant two days after Jace came home (which was November 7th, two days after the story was originally published, because this story is set in real time). You are too sweet, and I'm so, so, so evil.**

 **blossom146: There are going to be many complications, I assure you. We are in for a bumpy ride so buckle up kids. I'm going to promise you (even though my promises tend to have some sort of weird twist that breaks your heart) that Jace is going to start treating Clary better if I have anything to do with it.**

 **Jling: I hope this cleared up a bit of the confusion about Clary's big announcement!**

 **Guest: Alright. I can't really tell you all that much about whether not Jace is cheating because when the big "fallout chapter" comes along, the shock won't be as great (which is not to say that he did cheat). I'm sorry that you think it's all over the place but the story is going exactly as I planned it. As for the pace...it's supposed to be in real life, you know? Things tend to move slower in real time, and not only that, people like to keep secrets. As good as people can be, we have a horrible, nasty side. I can promise you, however, that things should start to clear up after the fallout...at least a little bit.**

 **Agent Kit Cat: TOG is amazing! :)) The Italian thing is kind of my fault for trusting Google Translate *laughs awkwardly***

 **Caitielynn09: Very interesting indeed...**

 **brendarhyn: Thank you so much!**

* * *

 **Tell me a song that you think goes with/suits this story or just that you think I might like.**

 **Anyways, the fallout should happen within either the next chapter or the one after (probably the next one, though I promise nothing).**


	11. Distraction

**Hey guys! This chapter's pretty long, and it's only the beginning of the fallout. I know I said there'd be one fallout, but I came up with this, and it just fit perfectly with what I wanted to do with the story. I'm so, so, so _evil_ —but you all already knew that. **

**Side note: If any of you dare think winter is amazing, (which, I mean, yeah, it's pretty and all—especially when it snows) you need to take a few steps back and then proceed to shovel a driveway after a massive snowstorm. Because I'll tell you, it takes well over three hours to accomplish such a feat.**

 **Okay, I'm done ranting about Canadian winter and how much I wish it was over already.**

 **Read on, I'm off to watch Shadowhunters (which, by the way, is _absolutely freaking fantastic_ , if you didn't know that yet).**

* * *

I shouldn't be taking a break, but here I am, sitting on the window sill, staring down at the empty driveway as rain pours and pours and pours. I have to finish a painting for a client, and yet here I am, fascinated with these tiny droplets of water falling from the sky. And maybe it's because the droplets get to splash to the ground and run down the pavement, the window, the side of the house—away from everything, until they dissolve into nothingness. How nice such a thing seems. My head might just explode if I ask myself the same question even one more time: _Why hasn't he said anything?_

I hate this feeling. This feeling I've felt too many times before. I can feel myself slowly slipping back into that god-awful hole of depression and sadness and underlying anger. Jon went back to Westchester late last night, Izzy's working non-stop, and Simon has a messy divorce case to handle. And so it's just me again, all alone.

And suddenly, the house feels so cold, so empty, so utterly freezing. Honestly, I couldn't tell you why I'm still here, why I haven't left. It seems so long ago now, when the only thing tethering me to my Golden Boy was those three seemingly meaningless words that carry no weight, no worth, and no value to him. And now…and now the only thing holding me to him is the hope that these small little babies growing inside of me will somehow fix the broken pieces—be the glue that holds us together until we know how to fit the pieces back together.

But _my God_! These babies shouldn't have to be what keeps us together! We should be together because we care for one another…and I know I care for him, but what I don't know is whether or not the feeling is mutual—if it's all one-sided.

And I pray to anything and everything that these feelings aren't one-sided. I've never even been to church, and here I am, willing to bend over backwards and pray for things to go back to the way that they were when we were nineteen and blissfully in love, so unaware of the obstacles we wouldn't necessarily overcome.

I want to slap myself silly. I want to fix things, I want a lifetime of memories—even those pointless ones you seem to forget over the years. I wanted a lot of things in life, despite all the people who told me not to expect too much—and I got them, too.

But this…

Maybe this marriage just isn't worth the effort I'm putting forth anymore. Maybe that thinning thread finally snapped.

* * *

There are a lot of unwritten and unspoken rules of marriage. I'm going to go out on a limb here, and say that ignoring your rock star husband's phone calls is against those rules. If declining calls is against the rules, I'm assuming ignoring and or declining Skype calls, texts, and emails is also against those rules.

Jace knows work, he knows the initiative and time and organization and sheer dedication it takes. He doesn't seem to understand, though, that relationships work the same way.

 _Oh my God_ , I'm turning into one of those pathetic girls whose life revolves around a guy. I don't _want_ to be that girl; I _never_ wanted to be that girl. I _hated_ those girls with a passion when I saw the way they fell at the feet of a guy as if he were a god; I hated the girls who threw themselves away for a guy. I would just sit and watch and think. Didn't they know that that guy didn't give a damn about them? Could they not see the way he looked at them, not lovingly and adoringly, like he was supposed to do, but like she was worth as much as the rest of the girls drooling over him?

Now that I really think about it, though, I don't think I really hated the girls _themselves_ ; I hated what they _did_. And now it feels like I'm in high school again, except this time around I'm the girl throwing themselves at a guy, desperate for him to care, for him to love me the way I do him.

I'm not enough anymore, am I?

* * *

Izzy drops by after work, and I don't believe I've seen her in this state for a long, long while.

Her black hair is tousled and she's running solely on caffeine. Dark circles adorn her under eyes, and her clothes are wrinkled and stained. The only thing truly Izzy-esque about her today is the trench coat and tight belt wrapping around her midriff.

"Clary, Clary, Clary," she wraps herself around me, her long hair spilling over my right shoulder. "I missed you—you have no _idea_." She rocks us gently back and forth as we stand at my front door, squeezing me impossibly tight, but she's careful of the growing bump between my hips.

"I think I've got a pretty good idea," I tell her, returning the pressure of her hug. We haven't seen each other in nearly a month—I know, it seems impossible for a power duo like Izzy and myself, but we always promised each other that we wouldn't hold the other back from pursuing their career, and that's just us keeping our promise.

I get it. That sounded _so_ corny. Honestly, though, what did you expect from me?

"You know what we need to do?" Isabelle pulls away from me, her hands perched on my shoulders.

"I don't—"

"We need to have a movie night—,"

"—but I bet you're going to tell me."

"We can order a _crap_ ton of food—and lava cakes from Dominoes," Isabelle moans, pretending to wipe away drool as she shrugs off her trench coat. "And we can watch trashy reality TV shows, and just have a girls night like we used to in high school," she wiggles her fingers, showing off her pristine engagement ring and sparkling wedding band. "And then tomorrow, we'll go shopping and—"

"Iz, people are going to see my…see my, er, bump."

She waves her hand dismissively, kicking off her heeled boots. "Jace has probably seen the ultrasound picture by _now_ , Clare. I bet that's why he's called you a hundred-and-eight times," she brushes past me, gliding into the kitchen.

"Yeah, you're probably right—wait _what? A hundred-and-eight times_?"

"A hundred-and-nine," Isabelle sing-songs as my phone begins vibrating violently against the bench, where she's rooting through my fridge. She won't find anything in there, though, because I haven't been grocery shopping in…a long time.

"Clarissa _Adele Morgenstern-Fairchild-Fray-Herondale_ , a moldy peach and an empty McDonald's cup?" She holds up a black and blue peach, spotted with a faint orange colouring. Her eyebrows are sky-high as she tosses the peach into the garbage can to her left, the McDonald's cup follows suit, after which she proceeds to make a disgusted noise at her hands and wash them.

"I haven't gone grocery shopping in a while, and I don't necessarily trust my brother—"

"Anyways," Isabelle sits herself on a barstool, one leg crossed over the other, her arms propping up head, her hands poised ever so delicately; she looks like one of those oh-so charily posed models in magazines. "As I was saying about tomorrow—we'll go out and get a crib and paint for the baby's room—"

"Babies, there are two, Isabelle, if you recall."

"Yes, yes. And once again, as I was saying, we can decorate the babies' room and— _wait_ , hold on. Have you even _thought_ about names?"

I shrugged—so not the appropriate response to her question.

"This is unacceptable! Absolutely, hands down, unacceptable."

"Is anything acceptable?"

"Yes! Those babies, for one, are acceptable, and not mention the fact that they're sure to be the most beautiful human beings to walk the earth since Beyoncé herself. And secondly, the fact that Jace isn't being a complete asshole as of late."

By the time she finishes, she's a little breathless and her cheekbones are tinted pink. "So, yes, there things that are acceptable in my book. And you being my best friend also happens to be one of them."

I wrap my arms around her shoulders. "I'm glad to know you don't consider my husband to be a complete asshole," I joke.

"But he _so_ is—I was just being nice, for your sake."

"Oh, yeah, he's a _total_ asshole." I feel her shoulders shake, and soon we're both hunched over, gasping for breath and wiping black-tinted tracks from our cheeks.

* * *

I should call Jace back, I think. But then the doorbell rings and God himself comes bearing hot pizza and lava cakes and other delicious, delectable, heart-melting goodies.

So, in conclusion, I am not only a horrible person, but a horrible wife, too.

Isabelle pays the delivery man, and dumps our food in the living room, where we've set up blankets and pillows and basically made a fort. And as I reach for the top box, steaming and giving off the most appealing scent I think I might have ever smelled, Isabelle bumps me aside with her hip—though gently, as not to disturb the bump between my hips.

"Go call your husband. I might just go insane if I hear your phone ring one more time."

"Are you sure you haven't already?"

In reply, the dark-haired woman glowers at me.

* * *

"Clarissa Herondale I swear on us if you ever do that again—"

"Why us?" I interrupt somewhat rudely.

When Jace replies, his tone is marginally softer, gentler. "Because there's nothing I believe in more." His words stun me into silence, my heart rolling over and flat-lining. And to think, I thought that one day I might just be able to twist the English language to my advantage and beat him at his own game.

"You are going to be my undoing, Jace Herondale."

I can hear his grin—or quite possibly smirk—through the receiver. "You're sure I haven't been already?"

"I don't—that is not what I called you for, Jonathan." I stutter briefly.

"So why did you call me, if not to banter with me?" I roll my eyes.

"Um, are you a little…Are you kidding me? You called me a—," I pull my phone away from my ear, glancing down at my lock screen and the total missed calls. "—a hundred-and-twenty-nine times!"

"Sorry," he doesn't sound sorry. "You weren't answering my calls and I may have…possibly…maybe, kind of, I don't know, panicked."

"That's cute," I muse, twirling and mindlessly twisting a strand of hair around my finger. "…And unusual. Why did you panic?"

"You're my _wife_ , Clary; I'm entitled to believe that I'm allowed to panic when it concerns you."

I laugh softly. "Yeah, and did I tell you—," a thump in my stomach steals my breath. And then another, and then another, and another. I lean against the wall for support—though I'm not quite sure why I think the wall will relieve me of the kicking in my stomach. Because it won't, and it isn't.

"Clary, what's wrong?" Jace sounds alarmed, but like he's trying to not to be. He doesn't want me to know he's worried or scared—it's always been that way with us, him hiding his emotions and me distracting myself and becoming slightly, if not much more than slightly, detached.

"Oh, nothing, just Izzy…being an idiot, as per usual."

"That must be why I hear nothing but silence on your end, right?" Jace deadpans.

"Exactly and—Christ, Isabelle! Don't put that movie on!" I shout over my shoulder, hearing the telltale voice of John Travolta and music. Jace chuckles at me. "What movie is she trying to make you watch?"

I groan loudly enough for my friend to hear. "Grease, _again_."

"Have fun with that," Jace's deep chuckle reverberates through the cell phone pressed against my ear. We say our goodbyes and hang up, Jace's sleaze of a manager begging to yell furiously at him for something, and the chorus of an irritating _Grease_ song echoing through my house.

* * *

I groan, rotating my body. But I can't get comfortable. It almost feels like something is jabbing me repeatedly in the skull, every time it moves.

Hold on—it _moves_?

My eyes snap open. I'm staring straight ahead at the softly flashing TV ahead of me, though it's on an odd angle. And this is the point in which I realize that, I, myself, am on the strange angle, my head resting on something—someone.

And she keeps moving. For God's sake, Isabelle Sophia—

"Iz," I whine, lifting my heavy-feeling head off of her bony shoulder. "Stop _moving_ , it's bad enough these little Satan's have been kicking me all night." I remember vividly, walking back into the living room after my phone call with Jace, demanding she change the channel to one that wasn't playing the most infuriatingly annoying movie in the universe. She had profusely denied me of my wish. And so we ended up watching Grease, and during a commercial break, she had asked me why Jace and I said our goodbyes so suddenly—"the call seemed to be going _really_ good." She had said.

I then proceeded to explain to my then-ecstatic best friend that the babies had started kicking like they were on one of those workout machines at the gym. Though I couldn't for the life of me tell Isabelle which workout machine that was as she giggled through her hand, which had been pressed tightly to her mouth as she attempted in vain to stifle her aforementioned giggles.

"Shut up," she says groggily, blinking her eyes a few times. She rolls her shoulders as I absent-mindedly pick at the fabric of my fluffy socks.

After a few minutes of us just sitting there, trying to keep our heavy eyes open, she stands up, extending her hand to help my pregnant-self up to my own feet. She stares down at the Chanel watch strapped to her slim wrist—a very extravagant apology gift from her mother, for what, though, I'm not sure. "I've got to go; I promised to take Max to the park today." She looks up, her ash-coloured eyes searching mine for a beat. "Would you want to come with us?"

I nod my head, smiling tiredly. "I miss my little Maxie."

* * *

I tap my hands against the leather of the steering wheel, awaiting Isabelle and Max, who she went inside to get ready for the brisk spring air and a most probably muddy day at the park. We just picked up the four year-old, who had been all but jumping up and down in his car seat (we had taken Isabelle's car instead of my own).

Turning my head, I spot Isabelle, hurrying through the rain that had just started to pour down heavily. Her arms are bare, her feet void of any shoes or socks, and Max's little hand caught in her own as she pulls him rapidly down the driveway to her car. His coat is clutched tightly in his small left hand, dragging against the wet cobblestone drive.

Isabelle, faster than I think I've ever seen her moving—even on Black Friday—buckles Max into his car seat, dumping her trench coat over her lap as she slumps into the passenger seat. "Drive," she tells me, her voice choked and strained. She murmurs about stepping on some rocks and curses with that same painfully strained voice. I do as she tells me, my eyes impossibly wide and darting between her and the road as I drive down random streets until I eventually park my car on the side of a suburban road, houses of all shapes and sizes crowding around us. I turn in my seat to face Isabelle.

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, and it breaks my heart; Isabelle never cries.

"Izzy…" I trail off, unbuckling the restraining seatbelt hidden under my swollen belly. She meets my eyes, her chin wobbling and her lower lip red and cracked from her worrying at it.

"Clary," she wails, burying her face into the space between my shoulder and neck.

Max, despite being only four years-old, knows well enough something is wrong, and his dark brown eyes, too, glimmer with the promise of tears to come.

"Iz, it's going to be alright, I promise," I whisper, running a hand up and down her back, the other squeezed tightly around her shoulders as she cries. I wish I knew why the tears were falling—maybe then I could do something to stop them.

"No it's _not_ , Clare!" She screams, startling Max; he jumps up in his car seat, his back ramrod straight. "You—he—you," she stutters out.

"Tell me Iz," I say softly. I won't tell her this—I won't ever tell anybody this, but seeing Isabelle crying this way, scares me. She's always been the strong one, the independent one, _the unbreakable one_.

And to see the unbreakable snap is terrifying. It's like standing in the middle of a bridge, and you know you won't fall, that the bridge won't break…until all of a sudden, the bridge snaps in half and you fall to your death, the world quickly deteriorating down around you.

"I hate him!" Isabelle squeezes my shoulders until her knuckles turn a ghastly shade of white. But I let her. I know what it is to feel like nothing is stable; like everything around you is crashing down or will come crashing down the moment you lay hands upon it. All I had wanted during those times where my chest ached and indescribable pain was coursing through my body. I needed something strong and steady to hold onto; a rock. Isabelle had been that rock, and she had been my rock long before that.

"Who?" I smooth her hair back from her tear-tracked face, where the black strands had been plastered previously. I glance down at her hand, perched on my shoulder, the blood pulsing through her veins slowly returning the appendage to its normal colour. And that's when I notice the missing rings. Both of them, gone.

"What did he do?" I demand in a low tone.

Isabelle straightens, wiping away a few tears with the back of her hand. "I caught him in bed with some _blonde_ ," she spits the words like they're poison. "And he only noticed me standing there when I threw my rings at his good for nothing effing face." Isabelle crosses her arms over her chest, sort of in a protective manner. She glances into the backseat, where her son is staring out the window.

"I-I don't know what to say, Iz. I really wish I did, because it sucks seeing you in so much pain."

"Good to know _someone_ cares about me," she replies darkly from where she leans her back against the window.

"I care about you, too, Mommy!" Max pipes up from the backseat, offering his dark-haired mother a toothy smile.

"I know you do, Maxie," she rubs his leg gently. "I hope you know I love you."

"I love you too!"

I don't believe my eyes when I see her face crack ever so slightly, a small smile in place, just for her little boy. And I think to myself, _there isn't a thing in the world she loves more than him_. I wonder, in that moment, will I be to my children like Isabelle is to her own?

* * *

I took Isabelle back to my house, where she carried on to one of the many spare bedrooms. I, myself, headed for the kitchen, Max in tow behind me, seeming to sense that his mom needed to be alone for a little while.

"Can you put that in the microwave for me?" I hand him a cup of soup. I know that Isabelle isn't sick, but I also know that soup is her cure for everything. Got a cold? Soup. A broken bone? Soup. A broken heart? Soup. Your family's been murdered in the most violent and gruesome fashion possible? Soup.

Max nods eagerly, setting the black tea mug on the microwave plate and slamming the door shut. I can see the liquid sloshing like waves pounding against the shoreline inside the cup. But it doesn't matter as long as the majority of the soup stays in the cup, which it does. It was certainly a good thing that I was able to find a can of non-expired cream of chicken soup in my bare cupboards, because it's Isabelle's favourite kind.

Just as the microwave goes off, I hear the jingling of keys and the door opens. Somewhere in the deepest corner of my mind, I hope it might be Jace—though I know that's completely illogical, as he's all the way in Australia, on tour. Though when a figure comes through the door, complete with slim, yet broad shoulders, a lean form, and messy white hair, I know it's my brother.

Didn't he _just_ go back to Westchester?

"Hey Sissy," he grins. "I had a change of heart and decided halfway back home that I couldn't leave my baby sister in her time of need." His expression changes from teasing to slightly confused when he lowers his gaze ever so much and spots Max hiding behind my legs.

"Who's this little guy?" Jon arches a pale brow at me, his muscled arms crossing over his chest, elbows cupped in his hands.

"This is Max, Izzy's little boy," I smile gently down at my God-son. Jonathan visibly deflates at the words. I roll my eyes. He's had a crush on Izzy since he met her when Izzy and I started ninth grade, but he hasn't been able, in the last eleven or so years, to grow a pair and tell her. And then, would you look at that, she got married to my jerk of a friend Simon and had a kid. Only to have said jerky friend cheat on her.

"Why is Max here?"

I sigh, handing Max the cup to deliver to Isabelle, telling him to be careful not to spill it. I lean back against the counter, feeling nothing short of exhausted, having gotten next to no sleep last night. "Simon, he uh—wait, you know Simon, right?"

Jon nods, so I continue. "Well, Izzy slept over here last night, and we picked up Max from daycare this afternoon, and I drove them back to Izzy's house so she could get him ready to go to the park."

"You shouldn't be driving, Sissy—"

I wave away his concern. "And Isabelle came running outside in the rain without any shoes on, and then we just drove around until I pulled over…"

"And then what?" Jonathan's green eyes, so similar to my own, are wide and curious, if not pitying. Jonathan's always been quite perceptive when he wants to be, very knowing, too. It's something I've always both hated and admired about him—he always knew when something was wrong, different. And I hated that. But I always secretly admired the fact that he didn't just do nothing; he typically tried to help me.

"And then Izzy just burst out crying, screaming that Simon was a jerk. That she hated him. I've seen Isabelle cry a total of two times since I've known her, Jon, and that was the third time. Do know how much it just utterly sucks to watch the unbreakable break?"

Jonathan simply gazes sadly at me. "Imagine that person being your little sister, and there's not a thing you can do about it." My chest swells, and I walk up to my brother, wrapping my arms tightly around his shoulders as I stand on my tiptoes. Even then, he still has to bend slightly to fully reach me.

"What happened to Izzy?" Jonathan finally asks.

"Simon cheated on her; she wants a divorce."

Jonathan pulls away from me, his hands still resting lightly on my arms. "What?" His reply is breathless, his eyes dancing with curiosity, confusion.

I nod, fighting the smile that wants to ghost across my lips. I know the immature little Jonathan inside of him is just jumping up and down with joy, fist pumping like there's no tomorrow. It sounds awful, considering the circumstances, but Jonathan is like a lost puppy when it comes to Isabelle, though he hides it impossibly well with indifference towards her. I don't think she's ever had the slightest clue that he cares about her—that he maybe, possibly, probably loves her.

Max returns to the kitchen, his hands void of the tea mug I had sent him to Izzy's room with. "Auntie Clary?" he asks shyly, twisting his hands in front of him, his naturally wide eyes trained on his small, sock-clad feet.

"Yeah, Maxie?" I attempt to crouch down to his level, though it proves to be impossible to get that low with my stomach the size it is. I'm not used to this, not in the slightest.

"Can we go to the park?" I nod and smile, catching Jonathan out of my peripheral vision, standing awkwardly in the shadows as per usual. If it weren't for the bright hair, I'd think he _was_ a shadow sometimes.

"Go ahead," Jonathan motions with his head towards the door. "I'll make sure she's alright. I promise."

"Thanks, Jon," I say, telling Max to go and grab his jacket from where it lay, discarded on the couch along with his favourite pair of rubber boots, they have a pale green background, covered in superheroes.

Max is bouncing up and down on the heels of his feet as he zips up his jacket, tugging on my hand, chanting "hurry up, Aunt Clary!" like a mantra. I laugh at his persistence, his impatience and just for a second, I can forget all the really crappy things that have happened within the span of a few hours. I can forget that my best friends aren't most probably going to get divorced; I can forget that Max is going to be stuck in the middle of it; I can forget seeing Isabelle with tears streaming down her face, looking so broken. I can forget all of it.

And then, it all comes rushing back the next second and I feel myself teetering over the edge of that same black hole of darkness and despair. I don't want to fall back in again. But at the rate things are going wrong; I don't seem to have a choice, do I?

* * *

 ** _~Isabelle~_**

I loved him. I loved him. I _loved_ him.

So. Goddamn. Much.

I knew we weren't perfect, I knew we weren't always happy, but I didn't think he was so unhappy he felt the need to bury himself and his sorrow in some twenty-two year-old client. He had been so busy lately, working on cases at the office…but now I can't help but to wonder, was he really working on cases? Or was he just screwing that blonde in the middle of a divorce case?

I scoff aloud. No wonder she was getting divorced at only twenty-two.

I keep replaying the moment I opened the bedroom door over and over in my head. I had heard the muffled groans and whimpers and all the other awful, horrendous noises emanating from the room—our bedroom, no less. I had prayed—

He hadn't even tried to stop me; he hadn't tried to explain himself as I stood there with my jaw on the floor. He had stared at me through the eyes of a stranger, like I was just a passerby on a busy street that he knew he'd probably never see again. And it hurt like you wouldn't believe. It still hurts more than I can put into words, more than I can think.

Long ago did I stop crying, and now I'm just…kind of, sitting on the bed, hugging my knees to my chest, staring blankly ahead at the wall.

A soft knock echoes through the blindingly white bedroom. And then a much more persistent knock follows. "Clary—," I call out, my voice hoarse and scratchy and all around unfamiliar to my ears, "I don't want to talk about it—"

"It's Jon." I don't reply, though he lets himself in a few beats of silence later. His weight on the mattress makes me slid forward ever so slightly, long tendrils of hair falling in front of my eyes. I hope the strands hide the manifest red-rims around my eyes.

"Do you—do you want to talk about it?" He asks hesitantly. Honestly, I don't even know why he's here; Clary said he'd gone back to Westchester late yesterday night after visiting some friends. I don't know why he's here, talking to me of all the things he could be doing.

"No." I reply sharply, the word piercing the delicate veil of silence that had settled upon the two of us. Jon's brilliantly green eyes go wide. I lift my head a little more, grabbing the collar of his shirt forcefully, pulling him to me. He's close enough that if I just tilt my head upwards ever so much, our lips could touch—I could kiss him. "I," I breathe, the gust of air tickling a few pieces of his wild moon-white hair off his forehead, where they had been hanging in his eyes. "Want a distraction."

* * *

 **I told you I was evil.**

 **And yet you all keep reading.**

 **So, as I said previously, the fallout will be more than one thing, quite apparently.**

 **The fallout should take place within the next few chapters, and I have a shocking surprise to be unveiled in one of these chapters.**

 **ThatBlondeALB: Oh thank you! I hope this chapter left you the same way.**

 **XOXPandaBear: I want to hug Izzy to. She's like, the best best friend you could ever ask for...sometimes. When she's not sleeping with your brother and keeping your husband's not-affair a secret.**

 **xTheMorningStarx: I know, right? Hodge sucks.**

 **It's Kris: He is such a poor excuse of an imaginary man...just wait a chapter or two.**

 **lovelydreams98: I don't think JAce will beat up his manager, but lots of different things will be going down very, very soon.**

 **Guest: It's kind of funny, really, because when I was planning out the story, and when I got to the part where Hodge came in, I didn't stop to think how evil he might come off. And TWINS! I'm pumped!**

 **Page1of365: Trust me, _nobody_ is happy with Hodge. I'm so excited for the next few chapters, and I'm going to try to have them up as soon as possible.**

 **Yumna: Well, we can't have our delectable rock star committing murder, now can we? What kind of father would he be then? Well, it's not like he knows, actually... Hodge has lots of problems...especially with our rock star's wife.**

 **Guest: Hodge...so many terrible things to say about Hodge. If only you knew the half of it. I've said it before, I'll say it again: my lips are sealed and you'll just have to wait.**

 **Janna: I have a very evil nature, so its only natural that I write evil, evil things. (Yey.)**

 **Ads S: I don't know anymore either, to be quite honest. LIKE I WANT TO SHIP CHAOL AND CELAENA BUT I WANT TO SHIP CELAENA AND DORIAN AND THEN THERE'S CELAENA AND ROWAN. JUST...JSUT UGH! I completely agree with you - it is time the fandom universe met a girl who falls in love more than once (though I don't think she was in love with Dorian, she loves him though). I love our weird, disconnected-ish conversations, too:)) I'm not going to spoil anything for you about the story (because you'll find out soon enough - like _next few chapters soon_ ) but I honestly could not forgive anyone who cheated on me, even if I loved them more than anything else. But sometimes you just have to make your characters do the unthinkable, something readers expect but don't. You know? This is not me saying that Jace is cheating on Clary...but, sometimes people do stupid, stupid things. Take Simon for example. But know that I intend to break your heart in all the best and worst ways possible. (Told you I'm evil.)**

 **gabergirl: Oh, you're welcome! And you should be scared of what Hodge will do...he might just be a little...hmm, how do I say this gently? Unhinged?**

 **chesire15: You going to start seeing now that we've gotten a little bit inside of Jace's head that Clary isn't the only one suffering. I know he seems pathetic, and I bet quite a few people would agree with you, but it's simply the way I've developed the character. Trust me, everything is going to work out (and quite possibly not in that happy-ever-after sort of way).**

 **lunatic-blondie: Oh trust me, I can't stand the sack of wrinkles either. I'm not promising anything; my lips are sealed!**

 **reader101: *grins evilly* Oh, I can, and I just might.**

 **sharingstories2: Thank you! I hope you're enjoying the story!**

 **DollBabbby: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!**

* * *

 **As I'm sure you've guessed by now, this story is angst-y and breaks your heart and then I stomp all over your heart. So I thought I might give you guys a fair warning, keep tissues, bandages, and any other seemingly necessary medical equipment near by the next few chapters.**

 **You know you love me:))**


	12. Gone To Hell

_**OhMyGod**_

 **This is one of the biggest parts of the elusive fallout to date! Are you excited? You sure as hell should be!**

 **I was going to write something, and then I realized it would spoil some stuff, so, you know, withdrawn.**

 **Now, read on, my younglings!**

 **( To the surely lovely person who left me this review: "** So it would be nice to c Clace sometime soon:( waiting and waiting and oh waiting! WTF? **"** _**This is for you, dear guest who thinks getting pissed off at me about there being no Clace will make me give you some. Well, news flash: It won't! Shocking, isn't it? If you want some fast-paced unrealistic Clace fanfiction, go somewhere else, because I'm am most certainly not going to change my story just for** **you.**_ **)**

* * *

"Bastards," I growl, tossing yet another trashy magazine onto the floor of the plane. Hodge, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen. Does it make me an even worse person than I already am to hope we left him in Australia?

"Jace," Helen approaches me tentatively. Her Caribbean-blue eyes, partially hidden beneath the loose tendrils of her white-blonde hair, stare at me worriedly. If I'm not imagining things—like every sleazy photographer in the country is—a flicker of fear crosses her face. I chuckle darkly.

If I were her, I'd be scared, too.

"Helen," I mock, my voice sharp and piercing.

She scowls, hands perched on her hips. "You hardly have any friends as it is, _Mr. Herondale_ , so I'd watch it, if I were you."

I glance briefly at her, turning away and running a hand through my somewhat knotted hair. "Don't look so offended, you know I'm not a nice person."

Helen scoffs. "Now you're just pointing out the obvious. But, no, you aren't a nice person, Jace. Not always. But I know you care about her—so why aren't you talking to her at all? Wasn't it just a mere week ago you were talking to her everyday and telling her you missed her and loved her _oh-so much_? _Hmm_?"

"If she wants to talk to me, she can call me."

Helen cries out exasperatedly. "God Jace, you are so _stupid_! You _idiot_!" I turn to glare at her. But it doesn't faze her, not in the least. "Do you even know—do you even understand how _lucky_ you are that Clary hasn't left your sorry ass yet?!" She demands, throwing her hands up in the air, letting them drop back down to her sides after a second or two. "I've met her, Jace, and she doesn't deserve to be treated this way. How she hasn't packed her bags yet is _beyond_ me—I would've—any sane person would've!

"You leave her alone all the time, you don't communicate with her and—and I just don't know what it's going to take besides Clary actually growing a spine and leaving you for you to realize that she's the best thing that has ever happened to you!"

"Watch your mouth!" I bark, cheeks heating with anger, my eyes narrowing much like they had during my phone call with Clary.

"Oh, that makes you angry, Jace? Just wait until Clary leaves and you're all alone, wondering why you didn't open your goddamn ears and listen—to what Isabelle, I and your brother in-law have been saying all along. Because _you_ know it, _I_ know it; _everyone_ and _anyone_ within a ten mile radius can tell—knows that you would have nothing left without her."

Helen is right, and she knows it, too. I'd truly have nothing left in the world if Clary up and left me.

I don't reply, though, and not a minute later, Helen storms from the room, calling me anything and everything insulting she can think of. And all I can think is that I deserve to be called all of those names—and much more—as I stare down at the dozens of magazines that had been delivered to me this morning. On each and every glossy cover, is Clary, clad in baggy clothes, a small, definitely noticeable bump poking out just a little bit.

A few of the magazines have the nerve to claim she cheated on me, though all of them focus on one thing and one thing only: _Clary Herondale, pregnant!_

It's not true, none of its true. Clary isn't pregnant; she would have told me if she were. But it doesn't matter what's true and what's not when the tabloids are involved. All the faceless, nameless nobodies that work for me have been congratulating me on being a soon-to-be-father. But I'm not. I'm _not. I'm not_!

I'm breathing heavy, my hands clenching and unclenching, forming fists over and over again. Why do I want this to not be true so badly?

Why am I so deeply terrified of the fact that maybe, just maybe, the tabloids aren't feeding the public lie after lie for once?

* * *

As per usual, I'm being scuttled off to my next show in Philadelphia—despite the fact that it doesn't start until nearly nine o'clock tonight. Which is a grand total of twelve hours from now. But what really has me on edge, besides everything else going on around me, is the fact that Philadelphia is only two and a half hours from New York—from Clary. From the truth.

And if I, myself, am majorly on edge, I don't know how you might describe Hodge. He saw those magazines scattered across the floor, thrown haphazardly around the room, and I haven't spoken to him since—but every time I see him, a muscle in his forehead jumps and he cracks his jaw—though what he did say when he saw those magazines still echoes in my head. _Goddamn tabloids…they're always ruining everything_.

Besides the fact that the words are bouncing around my brain, Helen won't speak to me. She does indirectly, though, telling an assistant to inform me that I'm "needed for sound-check, _immediately_."

Her words ring in my ears. _Because_ you _know it,_ I _know it;_ everyone _and_ anyone _within a ten mile radius can tell—knows that you would have nothing left without her_. I set my jaw, fishing my phone out from my jeans pocket. _You would have nothing left without her_.

"Jace?" She sounds surprised that I bothered to call. Frankly, I'm surprised I worked up the nerve to even dial her number. Ever time I'd tried previously, my fingers shook uncharacteristically, and my pulse sped up. I wasn't nervous—Jace Herondale was never nervous—no, I wasn't nervous at all. I was scared.

"You're not pregnant, are you?" I blurt unceremoniously.

"What—Jace did you not get the letter I sent you?"

"Why are you changing the subject?" I demand, my eyes narrowing despite the fact that she can't see me.

"I'm not, Jace. Why do you care? There are bigger things going on than whether or not I'm pregnant!" I can easily picture the frown surely pasted across her delicately-carved face, the way one of her arms is most likely crossed over her chest, the other holding the phone to her ear.

"I care because—what on earth could _possibly_ be bigger than you possibly being pregnant?" I prompt, tapping my foot impatiently against the linoleum floor of my dressing room, running my free hand through my hair, tousling it and messing it more than it had been previously. My hands are shaking again, though not with the nervous energy they occasionally acquire because of Clary—fear. Its fear and I hate to even think it.

"Isabelle's getting divorced, that's what, Jace!" Clary quietly shouts through the receiver. "God, do you not realize that there's more going on in the world besides our issues?!"

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. The world seems to slow around me. Isabelle is getting a divorce? I wonder; did she finally realize what low-life rat-boy is?

I pretend that her statement totally just hadn't made me spit out the words previously resting upon the tip of my tongue. "No, Clarissa, I never did realize before that we're not the only people on the planet and that other people besides ourselves have issues."

Clary makes a noise. "You know what? Why don't you call me when you're done throwing a tantrum about whatever it is that's bothering you this time? Actually, no. Scratch that. Don't call me again." And then the line goes dead, the dial tone buzzing in my ear.

I take a breath, and then another and another. And that's when I seemingly wake up. Did I seriously just do that? Did I just—

Did I just lose the one thing that I have ever really cared about?

* * *

 ** _~Clary~_**

I don't know what I want to do more. Burst out into tears like a cry baby, rip out my hair, or throw my phone at the wall. I vouch for the latter, hurling my cell phone with all the strength of a five-month pregnant woman at the wall by the front door. It hits with a satisfying noise, falling to the ground like a wilting flower.

I'm only glad that Maryse had offered to look after Max until Isabelle got everything sorted out. I don't want him to ever see me falling back into that dark pit, nor do I want him to see his mother, typically so strong and unyielding, broken.

Everything's going to hell.

"Sissy? What's wrong?" Jon appears in the kitchen, his head cocked to the side, his eyes boring into me curiously, if not slightly worriedly.

"Nothing I just—I just—just…" I trail off, angrily wiping away the salty rivulets rolling down my cheeks with the back of my hand.

"What happened, Clarissa Adele?" My brother enunciates each word slowly, deliberately slow.

"You're smart, Jonathan, why do you _think_?" I blubber pathetically, trying desperately to stop the tears flowing so freely down my reddening face.

"Maybe you should take a page from Izzy's book and divorce his ass," Jon mutters, thrusting an evidently frustrated hand into his hair, mussing it. He leaves a few pieces standing up haphazardly on his head.

"How about no?" I scrub at my face once more. "Jace didn't cheat on me, unlike Simon."

Jon studies me for a moment. "I don't think he could ever bring himself to do something like that to you, Sissy. If there's one good thing about that good for nothing, spoiled, complacent rock star—"

"Get to the point, Jon," I sniffle.

"As I was saying, the one good thing about him is that he actually cares about you."

I snort rather unattractively. "Whatever floats your boat, Jonny boy," I sing-song, though I hiccup mid-sentence. Jonathan grips my arm firmly just as I try to brush past him as though I had a graceful bone in my body.

"What is that supposed to mean, Clary?" If there's one thing he inherited from our mother besides his eyes and leanly built form, it's that scary-calm before the storm, if that makes any sense whatsoever.

"He doesn't _care_ about me, don't you get it?!" I shout, tearing my arm from his grasp. "I'm probably better off alone and it _hurts_ , Jonathan! _It hurts like hell_!" Fresh tears roll down my cheeks with renewed vigour. Each and every breath sends a jolt of pain like a lightning strike to my heart. Why was I stupid enough to think that he cared about me? Why did I stay for so long in a one-sided marriage?

Jonathan pulls me to him, whispering reassurances into my ear. I can't help but thinking, should it not be _Jace_ comforting me like this, and not my brother, of all people?

"It _hurts_ , Jon, I want it to _stop_. I want to stop feeling this way." I'd be lying if I said I felt as though I had much more to live for other than the life growing inside of me. I know there are people, who care about me, but it just hurts so much…and every time I think things are getting better, I just slip and fall back into that pit of darkness all over again.

"Clarissa Morgenstern-Fairchild, if I ever hear you say such things again…" Jon trails off, pressing me harder against him, the pressure of his arm across my shoulder increasing. It is only in that moment, that I realize I just voiced all of those horrible, private thoughts aloud. And my brother has heard each word.

I didn't want him to know. He wasn't supposed to know it hurt that badly—nobody was supposed to know.

"Clary—what's going on?" Isabelle's voice, soft and curious, coerces me to peal myself away from Jonathan. All it takes is one look at my most probably blotchy, red, tear-stained face, and she pulls me to her.

I hiccup into Izzy's shoulder, letting a harsh laugh dance through the air. "Funny; aren't _I_ the one supposed to be comforting _you_? Not the other way around?"

"Shut up, will you?"

"I refuse to stand by and let you drown in sadness all over again," Jonathan pulls me from Isabelle's embrace. "Come on, grab a jacket and you're phone—we're going out."

* * *

I don't know where Jon is taking me, but all I can think is: _should've kept it inside, you shouldn't have cracked like that; you're_ weak. And it's true; every single syllable of it is true. Breaking down like that only causes more problems, and it's _so_ not like we don't have enough of those floating around already.

Jon keeps setting his jaw, looking over at me and parting his pallid lips a few millimetres, like he's going to say something, like he's going to fill the void of silence, only to turn back to the road and step on the gas slightly.

But this time, he says, "does Jace know you're pregnant?"

I debate what I should say for a beat, before letting the words tumble from my lips. "No—I sent him an ultrasound picture with a letter, but…but I don't know if he's even seen it. It's not like it matters, anyways; he doesn't care." I mutter the last sentence, hoping a little that Jon didn't hear it—but then again, why do I care?

God, look at me. I've become one of those girls I hated so much in high school. My world practically stopped spinning because of a guy. _Weak, pathetic, and spineless_ , a menacing voice teases in my head. I hate the fact that the voice chanting the words like a spell is my own voice, I hate that each word rings truer each time they're spoken.

Have I truly become so dependent? So utterly spineless I can't bring myself to walk away from a toxic relationship?

I remember, once, hearing my mother tell me that we love toxic things because they are forbidden. But Jace isn't forbidden, now, is he?

Neither of us actually knows how we're supposed to treat the other—theoretically, of course we _know_ how love is supposed to be, but we can't put those thoughts into action. I block him out, he puts up a wall. That's how it's been since he made it big, and I'm just not sure exactly what changed.

 _I don't want to fall back into that hole_ , I grit my teeth, clenching my fists. Jonathan doesn't seem to notice, trapped within the confines of his own mind. I most certainly was not this person three years ago, maybe even two years ago. I didn't even know this hole of darkness and bleakness and utterly hopelessness existed, I didn't know how hard it was to claw your way back out once you had fallen.

Oncoming headlights nearly blind me from where I sit in the passenger seat of Jon's car, the radio cutting out momentarily. I can tell, with just one glance at Jonathan, and the way he keeps re-setting his jaw over and over and over again, that this will be quite possibly one of the longest car rides of my life.

* * *

My heart seems to clog my throat and weigh down my feet all at once. And we're not even out of the car. Jon rather violently shifts his car into park, jolting me forward ever so much, and my eyes wide as I turn to gape at him.

"What are we doing here, Jonathan?" I whisper into the silence filling the empty space between us.

"You and the moron with a hot air balloon for a head had a fight, Clarissa. And maybe he'll realize the mistake he's making when he sees that stomach of yours."

I look up at the Mann Center, bright lights flashing, and cars honking and greedy for a paring space, loud, thunderous chatter, and music floating through speakers cutting through the air as Jonathan tugs his car keys from the ignition.

"Well," Jonathan prompts, eyebrows hidden underneath his hair. I make a mental note to slice it off one of these nights while he's sleeping. "Go. Get out of the car, Sissy."

I stare at him, my face somewhere between a frown and a glare. Is there a word to describe such an expression? I doubt it.

"Make me," I force all my energy into glaring at him. I don't want to go inside Mann Center; I don't want to see _him_. I don't even want to be here. I just want to go home and nap; I feel exhausted, completely drained. And, you guessed it, it sucks.

Everything just seems to sort of suck right now, one way or another.

"Sissy, you're not going to like me anymore if I have to make you."

I jut out my chin and turn my head away from him, staring out the window, fighting to keep my features impassive. "Now, ideally, I'd just throw you over my shoulder and carry you inside, but seeing as you're oh so pregnant, and I can't do that, I can carry you bridal style."

"You wouldn't," I snap my head back towards Jon, narrowing my eyes threateningly—not that I could do him much damage. He grins in a way that seems to say _try me_. I grumble something threatening, and daring him to even think of picking me up off of the ground before getting out of the car, albeit ungracefully.

"Give me your hoodie," I hold out my hand impatiently. I'm not going in there merely for everyone to gape at my much larger than normal stomach. My brother yanks the sweater over his head in that way that only boys can seem to do properly, and hands it to me in passing. I shrug it on, letting him lead us to a door marked backstage. Two body guards—burly, widely-built men dressed in black—stand near the door.

All it takes is one look down for the bouncers to stiffen, their posture increasing marginally. "Mrs. Herondale," they each murmur along with a form of greeting. I wave half-heartedly in reply. Just because I'm pissed at my brother—and not to mention my husband—does not, by any means, mean I'm going to be rude to anyone else, especially when they've done nothing to me.

Both men—the one on the right with deeply tanned skin, speaks in a low tone into his earpiece—step aside to allow Jonathan and I entry backstage. I catch only a few of the quiet words the guard murmurs into his earpiece: "Mrs. Herondale," "Alert Mr. Herondale."

I groan internally, wanting to turn around and run out like my feet are urging me to do—and yet, those exact same feet bring me forward another step and another and another. I drag my feet purposely, hearing my knee-high boots making that scuffing noise against the linoleum flooring.

Looking down as my boots drag across the floor, I notice just how big Jonathan's sweater is on my slight frame—I may be pregnant, but I'm still quite small in comparison to how big Izzy had gotten. In summary, the forest-green sweatshirt falls to my knees—maybe a little past—and I look like I have exactly zero curves and even less boobs. Where my long-sleeve maternity shirt and leggings (everything I wear now is either maternity or just a much bigger size than I'd normally wear) had looked at the very least, mildly fashionable with my boots, the sweatshirt does not. Whatsoever.

But most of all, no one could tell unless they really looked—truly scrutinized me, that I'm pregnant.

I don't know why I care. It doesn't matter whether anyone knows anymore; it's on nearly every single gossip sight every single goddamn time someone snaps a photo of me. And now that I think about it, I bet that's why Jace sounded so pissed yet panicked during our last conversation.

"Clary!" At the sound, I would've snapped my head upwards, meeting the aureate pools, if it were not for the fact that I, one, don't want to be here—I'd rather be anywhere but here—two, I just…I think this might be me getting ready to give up.

"Clary!" Jace yells again, rushing down the hallway, a blonde girl with bright turquoise eyes and a clipboard gripped tightly in one hand, following hot on his heels. I remember her—his stage manager, Helen. She keeps hissing things at him, glowering at the back of his head as she struggles to keep up in her tight-looking jeans and ballet flats.

Jonathan stalks forward, his long legs and scary-calm demeanor worrying me. "Jonathan Herondale," my brother grabs Jace by the collar of his t-shirt, throwing him against the slightly off-white wall on the right side of the hallway. Jace winces when his head connects with the drywall. Helen stifles a gasp, though she proceeds to cross her arms over her chest. Almost like she's saying her own version of both _I told you so_ , and _you deserve it_ , to Jace.

"Why don't you tell me a story?" Jon sneers, his face, suddenly more dark and menacing than I've ever seen it be, pressed close to Jace's own.

"Which one?" Jace arches a brow boldly. "I've got lots," he smirks; his eyes, dilated and nearly engulfed completely by the black, flicking over to me. I make a disgusted noise at the back of my throat. I'm fed up, I don't want to be here, and I don't want to be within a twenty feet of the boys snarling and hissing at each other against the wall.

"How about you tell me the story where the complacent jackass of a rock star gets my baby sister pregnant?" Jonathan takes advantage of Jace's momentary distraction—he glances over, wide eyed, at me, his eyes roaming up and down my body—and slamming Jace's once more against the wall, his head connecting with a loud, harsh noise against the wall that makes me cringe and wince all at once.

"She's not preg—"

"What is the meaning of this?" Hodge barks, his beady eyes glaring out from beneath his eye wrinkles. He wears a velvet burgundy jacket that hands oddly on his body. One of his shoulders, always seemingly raised just a little above the other, makes it look like he's _trying_ to be Frankenstein.

"Mr. Starkweather," Helen reaches out to grab him, seeming near desperation, but he shrugs her off and goes forward despite her stressed-sounding warnings. He grabs my brother roughly, snarling through his yellow teeth not to touch his "money-maker."

"Hey! _Don't touch him_!" I shout over the chaos, pulling with all the might of a five-month pregnant woman on his gnarled shoulder. He hisses in pain, and before I can process what's happening, he's bringing his sharply-boned elbow back.

He hits me in my stomach; my eyes widen and I gasp loudly. Pain, like a burst of bright light shoots through me, hitting every nerve-ending, bursting every vein. And as if it weren't enough for him to hit me square in the stomach, he shoves me with a force I did not believe possible for a man such as himself to posses into the wall. Inevitably, I collide with the wall, trying near crazily to make sure that my stomach does not obtain more damage than it already has. Instead of falling to the floor, however, Helen grabs onto me, gripping my shoulders tightly. She manages to mostly steady me, and I can't help the salt water that begins to pour from my tear ducts. I clutch frantically at my stomach, hoping, praying— _whatever_ the hell will make sure my babies are okay, that they'll be fine.

" _You_ ," he points a bony finger at me as my pulse spikes, blood roaring in my ears like the many monsters in my closet. Helen steps in front of me, in a near protective manner. I can't help but wondering: where in the _hell_ are all those stage hands and assistants _now_? "You are nothing but a _money-hungry, fame-seeking whor_ —"

Hodge stumbles backwards, narrowing his eyes forebodingly at my brother—no, not at my brother at all. He's narrowing his eyes in such a sinister way at Jace, who had somehow managed to push my brother off of him and onto the ground. "You're goin' regret that, boy," Hodge warns, once again gesturing with his bony, sagging-flesh clad fingers.

"I don't think I am, Hodge. Because you're fired, get your sorry ass out of my face, and if you ever so much as _look_ at my wife again, I will—"

"You're goin' what, _Mr. Herondale_?" Hodge spits out venomously, laughing hoarsely.

Jace's face heats; his cheeks turning a deeper shade of red than I have ever witnessed in all the years that I've known him. His jaw is working furiously, his knuckles turning white with amount of pressure him squeezing his fists together with. He advances on Hodge, and all I can do is clench my eyes shut, hoping that the pain pulsing through me dulls or just stops completely. I just want it to _stop_ — _I want it all to stop_.

"Clary, you're going to be alright; I promise." Helen wraps her arms around me, not allowing me to watch the rest of the display. I don't know her very well, true, but I don't think I could have ever considered her as more of a friend than I do right now.

This woman, that I've met once, maybe a few times more in brief passing, may have just quite possibly saved my children's lives.

I let Helen lead me away, down the hallway. She barks orders out at anyone we pass by, and I only catch bits here and there, but one word sticks more than any others have in weeks: _miscarriage_.

* * *

 **Once again, I just proved to you all how very evil I am.**

 **Albeit, I did not intend for like, 90% of the stuff that went down to go down when I planned this out. Just thought you'd all like to know that you could have walked away with only semi-shattered hearts. But no. I'm just pure evil. I'm Satan's incarnate.**

 **xTheMorningStarx: First off, no, you weren't ready for all the drama. You still aren't. And I guess Jace just, kind of...found out.**

 **JessaGraystairs: Hehe ;)) I try my best.**

 **WinchesterSurvivor: Trust me, nobody who reads my story has any faith in Jace whatsoever. I don't blame you, but I'm still not giving anything away because the fallout is not yet complete.**

 **Janna: Eh. I was re-reading over my story, and I just found Simon to be very...sort of, detached from his marriage. So why not make him cheat on Izzy? I really hate to burst your bubble (but I'm going to do it anyways, as I stated above: I'm Satan's incarnate) but Jon and Izzy _did stuff_. Simon really did cheat on our beloved Isabelle, and yes, Jace and Simon are both huge jerks.**

 **Guest: I hope you're satisfied now that Hodge is fired, and I'm not going to tell you anything about our favourite Clace babies (who, whoops, I may or may not have just killed off).**

 **sexistpiglet: I felt so bad for my baby Max, but I didn't want to draw him into the drama - it's best he stays with Maryse until this whole mess isn't so...messy.**

 **Page1of365: I know, I love Izzy so much and I hate to put her through so much pain, but life is just a major jerk sometimes.**

 **Bottlecap: You, I like you. I really appreciate that! :))**

 **Skillz37: Oh, frig, I hate when that happens. It sucks that Sizzy's relationship is broken, but I can't promise you anything for Clace thus far, sorry.**

 **Yumna: Okay, I hope this clears some things up. So Clary wasn't sure herself whether or not Jace got the letter and didn't want to ruin the surprise. And, yes, I'm very evil.**

 **Married to a Herondale: Hehe. So, obviously, Jace didn't totally find out everything this chapter, but next chapter...just you wait.**

 **Guest: I never see Jizzy as a couple much in fanfcitions, and I love them too (if written properly!) I hope this chapter momentarily satisfied your craving for more.**

 **Shauna Kullden: I won't promise anything about Clace. But as for being my beta, I'm sorry, I have a beta (I don't use her on this story, but I have one, and she's freaking awesome), but thank you for the offer! :))**

 **Guest: I was jumping up and down until I re-read what I'd wrote for this chapter. And from now on, I'm using your Jizzy ship name (even if you didn't make it) because Jizzy is amazing.**

 **Ads S: (Glad you still reviewed even if you weren't signed in, 'cause you're the bomb and I'd miss our disconnected conversations) I do have no heart, we've established this. Tell me what you thought about this one (I smell another incredibly broken heart...and tears, definitely tears, too).**

 **ILiedAboutMyAge: (Love your user) I love Max - everybody seems to, he's so cute to write. Especially at the Gala. I ship Jizzy so much it hurts. (Not really, but we can pretend.)**

 **HeronFray104: Izzy is bold and I love that about her. You are absolutely, hands down, 100% right about Simon. I apologize about Jace not finding out by the letter, but things just seem to happen when I stare at my computer screen for too long and listen to music at the same time...**

* * *

 **So either next chapter or the chapter after that is going to be called "House Of Memories" so tell me what you think that might mean.**

 **And also. Leave a song in your review that makes you think of this story/reminds you of it/whatever makes it relate to the story.**

 **Once again, this is Satan's incarnate, singing off to work on the next chapter.**


	13. Changes

**WHO ELSE IS MAJORLY PUMPED FOR LADY MIDNIGHT TOMORROW?! I AM!**

 **I really want to thank all of you who came to my defence in the comments and left me especially nice reviews. It makes my day. :)) And don't worry about me, I've got it handled. ;))**

 **I apologize from the bottom of my cold, dark heart for leaving you all on that cliff hanger.**

 **Honestly, I just couldn't back in touch with my characters and towards the end of the chapter you'll notice the quality sort of just...diminishes. So yeah.**

 **Enjoy, though! :))**

* * *

All I can remember was the blood. I've never been squeamish, blood has never bothered me. But dripping down Clary's legs as she let Helen lead her down the hallway…

For what could possibly be the two-hundredth time in the span of four hours, I thrust a hand through my hair. Noises blot out the actual sounds. I can't hear Jocelyn trying to stifle her tears, I can't hear Valentine pacing the length of the waiting room, and I can't hear Jonathan muttering the same three curses under his breath. I can't feel the heat of both Isabelle and Helen's eyes on me, either.

At least I can pretend I don't.

"My baby…" Jocelyn trails off, covering her face with her slim hands, allowing her hair to fall around her face like a curtain.

I can't stop thinking about how easily I had dismissed the letter—the one Hodge had shoved into his jacket. And Clary asking me if I'd gotten the letter when I'd practically accused her of being pregnant…

That had been the letter. She had been trying to surprise me. God—I run my hand down my face, trying not to wince at the bruise forming around my eye and the fresh cut that seems to be the coup de grâce. Jonathan seems especially proud of having given me the injury every time his eyes glance around the room—and inevitably land on me.

Finally, though— _finally_ —a doctor calls out for Clarissa Herondale's family. He seems overwhelmed by the amount of people that come to gather around him. Taking a breath, he flips through the papers attached to his clipboard.

"Is she…Will my daughter be alright?" Valentine breathes heavily, his eyes flitting downwards, and then flickering to the papers the doctor keeps staring at.

The doctor sighs. "Mrs. Herondale is very lucky; she very nearly suffered a miscarriage. But, yes, with plenty of rest, she should be absolutely fine—both her and the babies."

I nearly choke on my spit.

 _Babies_?

Isabelle must notice my slight coughing fit, as her eyes fix themselves on solely on me. The corner's of her dark purple lips curl downwards and her gaze soon turns frosty. I know why, though: Clary could have lost the babies and I would never have even known she was pregnant in the first place.

I should have known something was off, all the times I all but begged her to Skype with me, and all the times she would let out a soft, surprised gasp during our phone calls.

"Let me see her," I finally manage, doing my best to hold down the cough that wants to escape me.

The doctor purses his lips, giving me an apologetic look. "Mrs. Herondale specifically requested not to let anyone in."

I'm not sure what to feel at the moment. Surely, I feel as though someone just slugged me in the stomach with a burlap sack full of bricks. But I also feel…resigned, I suppose. It's Clary's choice, but it doesn't make the sting any less.

I can't be selfish with her, not anymore.

* * *

 ** _~Clary~_**

I keep my back turned after it's all done and over with. I curl in on myself the best I can with the bump settled somewhat uncomfortably between my hips. I haven't let anyone in. I'm not sure I can take the terrified looks anymore than I could handle the pain that had pulsed through my veins, which had ostensibly replaced my blood.

I was so scared. I'm still so scared. There are no words to describe what I'm feeling. I can tell you one thing, though: I have never been so _scared_ , so utterly, purely, wholesomely _terrified_ in my life.

The room is getting darker as the sun sets, but my eyes won't close, and I refuse to move my hand from where it rests upon my stomach.

It's going to be a long night.

* * *

I was just discharged, and even though I'm no longer dressed in the thin, blue-green hospital gown, I sit on the edge on the hard bed, drawing designs on the tile floor with the toe of my boot. Doctors and nurses alike asked me all night long whether or not I wanted to see my family. My answer didn't change all night, nor has it changed this morning.

I don't really want to go home, but I don't have anywhere else to go. I would go home, but Jace is going to be there—I got my phone back, along with my clothes, and the only thing that any gossip website seemed interested in reporting about was the fact that Jace had cancelled his tour for "unknown reasons."

And, yes, that was a near direct quote from one of my favourite website—I like reading gossip, sue me.

"Sweetheart, you know you've been discharged, right?" a nurse informs me in passing, her white hair pulled up into a bun, sort of lopsided on the crown of her head. I nod and thank her as she continues on down the hallway.

Technically, I'm not supposed to move around a whole lot, because of the fact that I nearly suffered a miscarriage. I'm on bed rest for a few weeks, at the minimum. Which, I'm not going to lie, sucks—but I'd much rather bed rest than having actually had a miscarriage.

Running a hand through my mussed hair, I walk slowly down the bleakly white hallway. My skin still sings in pain if I even so much as lightly trail my hand over the bruise on my stomach. There goes my weekend of playing drums on my stomach for a reggae band.

When I get to the waiting room, everyone—my parents, Jon, Izzy, Simon (who is receiving death glare from my brother and Izzy, who may or may not be wrapped up in my brother's arms), Helen, and Jace—is there, either pacing the length of the room, tapping their feet against the tiled floor, running their hands through their hair, and or cursing repeatedly under their breath (note: Jon is the only one cursing under his breath).

My dad, however, is the first to notice me standing there a little awkwardly. He stands up, brushing the tips of his white hair away from the center of his forehead and is standing in front of me within three long-legged strides.

He breathes in deeply. "My little girl," his voice is tight and a little bit higher pitched than normal as he wraps his arms around me gently. "I can have the best lawyer on the case in one phone call, if you want to sue that god awful man," my father murmurs softly.

I pull away from him, giving a weary, wobbly smile. "Thank you for the offer, Dad, but I'm going to have to go with no." Valentine gives a curt nod of his head.

"Would you like your Mom and me to drive you home?"

I shake my head. "No I think—I think I want to go back to Westchester for a while."

My Dad looks completely astonished, for a reason beyond me. "Really?"

I raise my eyebrows, nodding my head slowly. "Yeah, u-unless you guys don't want me to go back with you…" I trail off.

"Oh, goodness, no! That's not it," Jocelyn chimes in from where she stands a few feet behind Valentine. "We're just…. _surprised_ that you'd _want_ to come back home to Westchester, that's all."

"I'll drive you, Sissy," Jon interjects, Isabelle still leaning into his side, eyeing me sadly. God, I hate when she looks at me like that—I hate when anybody looks at me like that.

I turn to glare at my brother. "No, you won't," I inform him icily. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have been at that concert in the first place and we wouldn't be going through this right now.

I'm surprised, to say the least, that Jace is still just sitting on the edge of his chair, tugging harshly on his hair. He seems to be murmuring softly under his breath, but I can't find it in myself to really care. I don't want to be here, going through this. And the fact that I've always had a grudge against hospitals for whatever reason isn't helping all that much.

I need a break from everything, and though I know that it isn't okay to run from your problems, I'm going to try, at least for a little while.

* * *

Westchester is just as I remember it being. Except the last time I was here was just before I moved to New York for college, and I wasn't five and a half months pregnant.

I feel like I'm just being this huge inconvenience to my parents' lives right now, considering the fact that I don't have anywhere else to stay but at their house—or, as I've known it, home. I grew up in this house, aside from moving when I was five, but that makes no difference.

Everything looks the same, from the rainy-blue siding, to the front deck made up of wood with black, rusting metal poles for the railing, to the nearly floor to ceiling three-panel window that gives a pretty clear image of our living room. It sounds so corny, and I hate to even think it, it's that corny—but just standing in the driveway, the cracked pavement—though it's almost completely blanketed by the fresh snow that has begun to fall—beneath me, and the yellow split-houses built especially for students attending college in Westchester across the street, I feel better. More relaxed than I had been in New York, even.

As Dad brings my suitcase into the house for me—so chivalrous, I know—I stare blankly ahead, absently ghosting my hand over the side of my stomach where there isn't any bruising, thinking about the way Izzy had been wrapped up in my brother's arms. Were they a thing now?

Frustratingly, my mind keeps wandering back to the night of the gala, when Simon had had his arm wrapped around Isabelle instead of Jon, when Max had fit between them like the last missing link to their chain. And now poor little Max—I don't want to think about it, if I do, all I'll do is cry.

Having so many hormones swirling around inside of me is great, _really_.

But Simon and Isabelle—they had seemed like the perfect couple, and I had craved so desperately what they had together. Simon is—and has been—one of my best friends for the longest time, and he has to be one of the nicest, kind-hearted people I know. He was the stone to Isabelle's fire.

But I don't know anymore. I don't know what state my own relationship is in at the moment, the last thing I need to be doing is worrying about Isabelle's relationships—she can handle herself, that I know for sure. I just feel so guilty for not asking about her—how her life is going and—

"Clary, dear, are you coming inside?" Jocelyn's voice rings out, piercing the quiet atmosphere surrounding me. Her red hair, slowly returning to its typical light shade of red now that, shines in the little sunlight that has just started to break through the thick haze of clouds that had been allowing snow to fall just minutes ago.

I stutter out a response, following my mother up the stairs and through the front door. Warm air envelops me, and I close my eyes, savouring the sudden scent of laundry soap, oil paint and a mixture of both my Mom's perfume and my Dad's cologne that surrounds me.

An oddly patterned blanket hangs over the back of the couch, and an almost exact replica of the blanket covers a portion of the kitchen floor. Pots and pans hang from a rack on the ceiling; a rainbow sort of stain goes the length of the hallway before me. I smile at the memory. I can recall every detail of the day exactly: Jon had been in charge of watching me, him being two years older than myself, was apparently more responsible and more capable of taking care of me than I was. I don't know what gave my parents that idea—though now that I think about it; Jon probably planted the idea in their brains so that he'd get to go out that weekend.

So my parents left and I snuck into Mom's studio—which in all reality was just a spare room we had vacated for just that purpose—while Jonathan sat on the couch and watched some stupid TV show. I had gotten into her oil paints and managed to track them all over the house with my feet. And here's the part that'll really get you: Jon didn't notice until Mom demanded to know what had happened. And because all he did was sit on the couch when he was supposed to be taking care of me, I told them that Jonathan said it was alright if I used Mom's oil paints.

In conclusion, my brother wasn't allowed to go out that weekend, or the next, or the next, and he had to scrub the hallway clean. Yes, I was, and continue to be, an evil little sister.

And despite how angry Jon had been with me, the memory warms my hollow chest and keeps that same smile glued to my face the whole time I unpack my suitcase.

* * *

 ** _~Jace~_**

I understand why she went back to Westchester with her parents, I do, I just—I just want her here with me instead. And if that's selfish, then fine, I'm selfish. I don't care at this point how people see me—I've missed her so much and she doesn't even know. It kills me to think I left her alone when she was pregnant, with twins, so less.

Pregnant. With my children—our children. I never even thought about whether or not I would ever want children of my own, but now that it's real and happening and not just a thought prodding at the back of my brain, I realize that I do. I really, really do want kids. And the more I think about it, the more what once seemed an impossibility with the direction Clary and I's relationship was going becomes real.

I can see both of our children having Clary's gorgeous green eyes, and my bone structure, softened by Clary's influence. I can see Clary and I raising them to be better people than ourselves, to be strong, and determined, and kind-hearted.

I never thought—not in a million years—that I'd work up the nerve to fire that asshole of a manager. I never thought I would ever get the satisfaction of firing that complete and utter moron Sebastian but here I am.

 _This is happening, this is real_ , I think over and over, chanting the words until I somehow manage to morph them into a song. I hum along to the tune I've created, though I still hold my head in my hands, sitting on the edge of the couch for whatever reason. I tug harshly on the roots of my hair. _Think, Herondale, think!_ my brain seems to shout at me through the mess that is my head.

And suddenly, it hits me.

I dig around in the front pocket of my jeans for my phone, my fingers sloppily punching the numbers on the screen and proceeding to hold the small device to my ear.

"What do you want?" Jonathan growls on the other end.

"I need your help; I'm coming to get you. Where are you staying?"

"What are you—never mind. I'm at Izzy's, and she says she's coming, too."

"Perfect," I grin and hang up the phone, not even bothering to ponder over what possible reason my brother in-law would have to be at Isabelle's house, of all places.

* * *

Even if it was my idea to bring Jonathan and Isabelle, I kind of totally regret allowing Izzy to come. Whether it was because she kept snapping at the paparazzi that followed us around like hungry dogs at the sight of meat and kept flipping them off, or because of the fact that she went nearly insane when I gave her free reign to pick out whatever she thought would look good in the twins' room.

Though as I bring in the last box from my car, all but dropping it on the floor of the bedroom Isabelle had so excitedly deemed that of my children, I think she went much more than overboard. I didn't know there was such a thing, but quite apparently, there is.

Jonathan drops a can of paint by his feet, and chuckling softly, he gazes at Isabelle's back, something I can easily recognize shining brightly in his eyes as he watches Izzy's somewhat graceful rushing back and forth for different things.

He's totally, head-over-goddamn-heels in love with Isabelle.

And despite myself, I can't help but hope that's how Clary and I come off to other people.

"Jace? Earth to Jace." Isabelle waves around a paint swatch, her other hand perched lazily upon her hip.

I shake my head. "Yeah?"

"What do you think about this gray-purple colour? The guy at the store said it'll look different depending on the type of lighting in the room—like, it'll change colours I think? I'm not totally sure, but this is going to be great." She beams proudly, regardless of the fact that the room in which she's standing holds little more than boxes and parts to be assembled.

I shrug in response. Jonathan, however, clears his throat, "I think Clary will like it," and he ensues to smile softly at the dark-haired girl. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at his display. Sure, it's subtle, but Isabelle would have to be blind not to notice his affection for her.

And she is anything but.

Isabelle smiles back at him, nodding. "I think she'll like it, too. Now, Jon—you've got artistic talent, I hope?"

He laughs loudly. "That would be my sister. Why?"

She shoves the can of paint clutched in her hand to his chest. "Because you're going to paint the room—," she turns her gaze on me, smiling wickedly. "With Jace."

A collective groan fills the room, and I swear the light in the room bends just so that it can shine directly upon Isabelle's face. Her eyes capture an evil twinkle and her wicked grin stays in place, even as she backs out of the room, her trench coat still wrapped tightly about her.

"Oh, and don't forget about the cribs!" She calls, descending the stairs.

* * *

 **Did you really think I'd let her lose those babies?** **I'm not _that_ evil guys. (Is actually that evil.) **

**Short chapter, I know, and not to mention the fact that it kind of just really totally sucked.**

 **Anyways, anyone else ever gotten an email from a college that doesn't actually exist? I did. Three. I tried to Google the school, but literally nothing came up, so, you know, just a typical day in the life of me. (After I typed this I literally found out it was some dude in my class who my friend persuaded him to prank me. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go plan a murder.) :))**

 **I wanted you to know that I listened to all of your song suggestions and they were amazing - keep them coming!**

 **PJOAAR5TMIHPDIA4599: Nope, *insert grin* she didn't lose them. And, sorry to disappoint you, but no, Hodge will not be getting beaten anytime soon. I just really dislike writing fight scenes where people get physical and it seemed a little unrealistic to me, to be completely honest. I loved your song suggestions.**

 **xTheMorningStarx:I really hoped Jace would stop being a moron too, but...oops. *shrugs***

 **clarissa adele herondale: I don't know what I'm doing. I hope Jace isn't such an ass anymore though. I'm sorry I broke you.**

 **Shauna Kullden: I'm sorry you had to wait so long. Honestly, I don't ship Sizzy all that hard and I have no idea why. So, yeah, I ship Jon and Izzy more, that is why I broke Sizzy up. Besides, Simon is going to get to be happy, too. (Clary hasn't miscarried.)**

 **CasuallyLazyKitten: TRUST ME, THE FLASHBACKS ARE A COMIN'. I listened to Let Her Go, too while re-reading the chapter and editing and whatnot, and I just - no. AND HELL NO CLARY ISN'T THAT TYPE OF GIRL! SHE LEFT, AND NOW HE'S GOTTA MAN UP! And, I sincerely apologize because I have already murdered Hodge and hidden the body.**

 **blossom146: I'm sorry about the spelling in the last chapter, I was really tire when I posted it and I couldn't bring myself to comb through it another time so that's why the spelling is all screwy in some parts. But I'm glad you liked it.**

 **Janna: I don't know what to say, either. You are totally right, Clary could never handle losing her babies. Not now, not ever. She's resilient, sure, but not many people can come back from such a thing. Ooh, sorry about Jizzy but I ship them - like, really hard. I am evil (in a totally good(-ish)way, you're right). And, yes, I haven't started it yet, but there is going to be a Clace wedding at some point I'm just not sure when 'cause I'm swamped with school crap right now.**

 **raka.b13: I hope you're okay now that you're not jumping...Trust me, you have no idea I'm capable of being. (Thought I'd let you know, there's gonna be a lot of Jizzy in the future [I promise on my non-existent soul] but I just don't write smut.) I love reading your reviews, as much as you love my writing, by the way.**

 **Guest: Firstly, I don't care if this story is all over the place, only you and a handful of other people seem to have issues with it and I just don't care. And I bet she did feel better after sleeping with Jon, I mean I would. Of course I'm evil (you have to be evil to be Satan).**

 **Guest: You have no idea, (I'm going to go ahead and assume you're the reviewer who left me that truly wonderful review last chapter? [take note of my impeccable sarcasm]). And I'm not cute; I'm hotter than the fires of Hell, sweetheart.**

 **BrunetteAngel12: Glad you're enjoying the drama. I sure as hell enjoy writing it. ;) I don't think Jace is in denial, necessarily, just he didn't know. I listened to the songs you recommended and holy - I loved them so much. :))**

 **Guest: I guess it's a good thing I'm not trying to write fluffy Clace, then, isn't it?**

 **Guest: I love writing Helen, you have no idea. I was so elated when I got to write the part where Jace fired Hodge, again, you have no idea. I really like reading fanfics where Clary and Jon have a good relationship, so I figured why not write my own, right? I'm so happy you like the story and the characters I've developed. (And don't worry about the people who feel the need to tell me I'm a "Satanic Bitch" because I've never claimed otherwise and I appreciate the compliment, after all, I am Satan.)**

 **HeronFray104: (I'm lazy all the time, no worries) Drama, I know! And no dead twins today - nor ever. I'm already dreaming up how the twins will look when they're teens. God I'm awful.**

 **ILiedAboutMyAge: Clary's fine. Jace is the biggest idiot ever. Hodge can rot in Hell. I agree with you completely.**

 **Ads S: I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I APOLOGIZE MISS JACKSON! But no, sorry I made you panic. And yes Hodge was evil and shredded the picture of their children. Such a shame. Are you alright? Tell me you didn't get a concussion when you hit your head on the floor? Oh, god, I think you dehydrated yourself by crying so much...*shakes head disapprovingly***

 **.hope: I listened to the song, and though I don't really like that song of Adele's I loved it with the chapters. Jon is probably one of my absolute favourite characters in the story besides Izzy, 'cause she's just, well, _Izzy_. Trust me, you're not biased, I wrote the dynamic to be that way. **

**FairyHot: I hate this story and love it at the same time, too. I don't think that's okay considering I'm writing it...**

 **ThatBlondeALB: I did do that. I feel no remorse despite all the apologies I've written. You're right, there was not enough Clace in there to make what I did okay, but Jace deserved it. Don't you agree? You should keep waiting because I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.**

 **Bottlecap: *high fives you* I'm glad the feeling is mutual. Now, onto phase two: world domination...Hodge is a son a butternutsquash, isn't he? (Pardon my French.)**

 **Samantha Beatrice: Here, let me wipe your tears my child. *Pulls out handkerchief* I would say I'm sorry for breaking your heart so torturously slow but I'm not. :))**

 **Guest: You have no idea how much I hated Hodge. You seriously don't. Jace is getting a wakeup call alright, and that was just the first bit. You can definitely look forward to more of Helen because she's bomb af.**

 **Page1of365: Hehehe...**

 **Guest: I really want Clary to do that, but she's not that kind of person to just up and tell someone exactly what they want so we're stuck in this mess. I'm not intent on ruining your OTP, because 1) Clace is also my OTP. And that's my only reason.**

 **Guest: Don't shoot yourself. Clace is not done wreaking havoc on your heart just yet, but you can hold off on wreaking havoc on the world in a rage. Okay? Okay. Cool.**

 **Yumna: I don't intentionally make you cry, it just sort of...happens...?**

 **lunatic-blondie: I've never written so many jackasses in one story, either. But, alas, the world is full of them so why not? Looks like a certain doctor just spilled the beans...whoops.**

 **livinginsilence: Thank you so much. One of the things I don't think I'm very good at is writing character emotions; I feel like I just make them all really corny. So, yeah, that means a lot. :))**

* * *

 **Okay, so there you go, the chapter I promised called "House of Memories" is still coming, it's probably not gonna be till after the twins are born though.**

 **Come at me with all your negative reviews, I'm ready - I'm so ready.**


	14. Hurt

**300 REVIEWS GUYS?! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! THANK YOU SO MUCH!**

 **Be warned, this one is longer than usual.**

 **But on a side note: WHO HAS READ LADY MIDNIGHT?!**

 **I HAVE LESS THAN 200 PAGES LEFT AND OML. NO. I MUSN'T SPOIL ANYTHING.**

 **GO. READ ON BEFORE I RUIN THE WHOLE THING FOR YOU.**

* * *

I glare at the side of my brother in-law's pale, white head. He curses viciously under his breath, picking up the crumbled pieces of paper that were supposedly the instruction manual for setting up the two cribs.

"I know I'm hot—," the moon-haired man begins, seated on the floor; long legs sprawled in two different directions. "But staring at me like that is just borderline creepy."

I scoff loudly at the dry remark. "Your _sister_ is hot, you…not so much." And as he turns to glare at me, bright green eyes narrowed to slits, I smirk, resisting the urge to chuck the hammer sat beside one of the paint cans at his head.

"You don't get to talk about my sister, especially after the way you've treated her." My smirk falls instantaneously, my eyes dropping back down to the paint spatter on my shirt. The gray-purple colour stands out starkly against the black material of my shirt—Elephant Gray, I think Isabelle called it at some point.

"What did you think, anyways?" Jonathan drawls. "That you could keep on going the way you were and Clary wouldn't leave you? Or were you just too tied up with your own issues to even notice her?"

I grit my teeth, restraining myself from unleashing the biting remark I have thought up. Instead, I say, "I didn't know there was anything wrong, if I had I would have cancelled my tour immedia—"

Jonathan waves his hand in dismissal. "Yeah, yeah. I've heard it a million times over from my sister, almost like she practiced saying it to herself when no one was around." He glances upwards at me, his gaze burning the side of my face. "You don't see what everybody else sees, do you?"

"What, that Clary is sad? I know that, despite whatever you might think, and it kills me to leave her and—"

"That's not what I meant rock star—not necessarily."

"Then what did you mean?"

Jon sighs, dropping the practically useless piece of paper to the floor, running a hand through his messy hair. "She's so blindly in love with you—though I can't bring myself to see why—so much so that she no longer cares about the consequences—about the Hell that she can and has walked through for you. She doesn't care about her own health, Jace, and—either way, I'm certainly no professional, but I watched her getting sadder and sadder until she stopped eating, she stopped painting, drawing.

"Right before I stupidly brought her to Philadelphia, she said something to me—," he looks down, pursing his lips, the corners of his mouth downturned. His eyes flicker up to meet my own once more, his expression inexplicably sad, his eyes shining brightly with a variety of flickering emotions. "She said 'I'd be lying if I said I felt as though I had much more to live for other than the life growing inside of me.' There was more but it's all hazy now…And I don't think anyone who hadn't witnessed her saying all these horrible things would believe the raw pain in her voice. 'It _hurts_ , Jon, I want it to _stop_. I want to stop feeling this way.' Hearing her say that…it-it…it just about broke me."

My heart seems to have stopped beating entirely. I feel as though the appendage has got caught in my throat and fallen through the bottoms of my feet all at once. I just can't fathom—I can't wrap my head around this.

I can't imagine Clary ever saying such things. But the look in Jonathan's eyes…no one could possibly fake that sort of pain. I don't think the world has had the pleasure of meeting someone so talented quite yet.

Before I can open my mouth, Jon says, "And before you go opening your big mouth, know that it won't do you any good; I'm not Clary; I won't bring her back to you."

For the first time ever, his words stun me into complete and utter silence. Robotically I nod, turning back to the wall, partially cloaked in purple-gray paint.

* * *

 ** _~Clary~_**

I don't think I've ever had such an awkward family dinner ever since the first time I brought Jace home. And that is saying an awful lot—because that was nine years ago.

My mom has attempted conversation about three times now, though my dad just keeps pushing food around his plate, occasionally shovelling a forkful into his mouth. As for me, I'm sitting with my back hunched, staring down at my nearly completely full plate of food. Isn't being pregnant supposed to make you eat like your life depends on it?

"Honey, you should eat something. Maybe a little bit of tea would help—"

"Jocelyn, she's barely eaten since she got here a week ago. What makes you think she'll eat now?" My dad's voice is imposing, always has been, but there's a gentle edge to it, his eyes soft and worried as they land upon me. My head seems to spin like a carnival ride despite the fact that it's stuck firmly to my neck.

"I was just hoping she might—it isn't healthy for a young lady, pregnant or not, to be eating so little." My mother, always having been the calm voice of reason in an argument or heated conversation, lowers her eyes onto her own plate dejectedly; she knows I won't eat anything.

My father's hand, titanic in comparison to my small one, moves to cover my own. "Clary, you know your Mom is right. You need to eat something—if not for yourself, for those babies."

I nod, and taking in a greedy gulp of air, I force down some food though I know it'll come right back up sooner rather than later.

* * *

I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, sagging into my bed. I don't understand—I thought the morning sickness was done and over with.

The trilling of my phone breaks the drowsy haze that had settled over me momentarily. The caller ID tells me that it's Jace and I decline it, tossing my phone back down beside my hand. What seems seconds later, though it could be minutes or hours and I wouldn't care, my phone rings again. This time, though, it's Isabelle.

"Izzy?"

"Mhmm, I bet you're glad it's me and not your incessant husband using my phone again, huh?" Such a thing had already taken place about six times, give or take. Jace is adamant about talking to me but I just can't will any shred of myself to care. I feel utterly worn out after putting in so much effort to a seemingly one-sided marriage that I just need a break.

"You could say that. But why'd you call? It's got to be important if you chose to disturb my…peace." The word makes me crinkle my nose in—not disgust, necessarily; it was just a very poor word choice.

Isabelle makes an odd noise. "Peace?" She laughs. Her voice suddenly drops to a low whisper, leaving me to assume that a certain golden-haired boy is eavesdropping. "You still can't keep anything down? At all?"

I shake my head, dropping my own voice to the lowest possible whisper—the last thing I need my parents knowing is that while they go and do whatever it is they do during the day, I'm starving and unable to eat because I only prevail to puke up my innards. "Nothing; I forced myself to eat, stupidly hoping it would stay down, but it didn't." My throat burns with each breath, each word spoken, and each time I swallow it feels like I'm swallowing knives instead of saliva.

"Oh, babe," Isabelle says softly. I can easily picture her solemn expression, her inky hair falling in front of her wide, coffee eyes. "I hate that you're in so much pain. Is that it, pain? I'm not quite sure what else to say."

I laugh softly. My throat stings with renewed vigour at the action. "Sure, we'll go with that Izzy. What have you been up to in my absence, anyways?" _What has Jace been up to?_

"Besides going through divorce papers? I've been mediating fight after fight between your husband and brother."

"I hate that I'm not there helping you through all of this crap Iz, I really do. I haven't talked to Si, but—I just—I can't believe he did something like that."

"Neither can I," Isabelle says dryly. Isabelle has never been one to dwell on the things that have hurt her or that have caused her pain. She likes to move on fast—the fast lane is where she has and always will belong. It's one of the things I admire most about her. Now, if only I could be more like her instead of being who I am, curled in on myself and praying to a God I know I don't believe in to stop me from drowning in sadness—or whatever the hell this is.

"H-how is he—d-do you know?"

Isabelle makes a contemplative noise. "To be totally honest with you, Clary darling, I'm not sure. He doesn't want to get divorced but I can see it when he looks at me that he's not happy anymore. And if I want to be honest with myself, I don't think I was happy anymore, either."

"Wow that was profound." I remark. "But—I mean—is it all right if I say I'm happy for you guys?"

I can virtually hear my best friend shrugging all the way from New York. "I guess; I don't really see why not. I'm happy with your brother and I can't say for Si."

"Wait, hold on a second. Did you, Isabelle Sophia, just say my _brother_?"

Silence meets my words. After a few beats, she sighs dramatically. "Fine, yes. You caught me. And I swear if it's not okay I'll totally stop whatever it is Jon and I have going on. I'm your friend Clary and there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you, so if this makes you uncomfortable at all, just tell me and I'll break it off with him. Just say the word. I swear, Clary. I promise on Max, if that helps at all. Though, now that I think about it, that probably wasn't a good idea but I mean—"

"Izzy, stop, breathe— _something_!" I exclaim quietly, pressing my free hand flat against the duvet cover on my bed, relishing in the soft feel of the fabric against my palm, the smell of my favourite peach blossom laundry soap wafting up from the fabric.

Isabelle draws in an audible breath. "Okay, I'm good…I think." And just as she starts chuckling slightly uneasily, I hear shouting coming from her end. The connection begins to diminish, the sound of Isabelle shouting at the top of her lungs at who I assume to be Jon and Jace is faint, her voice cracking rather loudly in my ear.

"I'm going to let you go, Iz," I say into the receiver, though I'd bet money that she didn't hear a single word I just said. And as I run a hand through my tangled hair, stray strands still pasted to my forehead from when I'd vomited up what must have been everything I had barely managed to keep down this past week, I end the call, sighing wearily as I allow my phone to drop to the bed for the second time that night, a soft thud following.

Just as my eyelids begin to fall, I hear the distinct shrill of my phone ringing. The sound resonates, seemingly bouncing off of every available surface, seeming to come straight out of the walls. But maybe that's just me. Maybe that's just because I know exactly who it is.

Without warning, I feel my throat burn; I allow my feet to carry me to my en suite, unable to care that I've just run across the floor like an ogre, or that salty rivulets are already rolling down my cheeks until they're no longer rivulets, but two wet smears down either side of my face.

And when I kneel in front of the porcelain bowl, nothing but water tinged watery red comes up, though I continue to dry heave as though my life depends on it.

It is only when my body feels completely and wholly drained of energy—if I thought how exhausted I felt before Izzy called was horrible, this is indescribably terrible—that I stop dry heaving. My throat aches, and my head is spinning, and I can hardly bring myself to look down into the toilet bowl.

My heart seems to stop, throwing itself up and into my throat, and fall into my empty stomach all at once. The water, once clear, is now tainted with red—so much red.

There should not be that much red.

My knees feel weak, I feel lightheaded, like I could fall over at any given moment. My lower lip quivers, and I feel so purely, wholesomely _terrified_ at the sight of all that red—of all that blood.

This isn't normal.

 _This isn't normal_.

"Mom," I call out weakly, my voice hoarse beyond belief. My throat stings viciously when I swallow, and I feel so, so _thirsty_ all of a sudden. " _Mom_!" I force the word out, I sound so scared, even to my own ears. I hear the panic that thickly laces my voice, the exhaustion coating my tongue.

Distantly, I register the sound of my bedroom door opening, the sound of footsteps hurrying through the square room, the sharp gasp and deep intake of breath when the footsteps halt at last. My vision is blurry when I look up; all I see is a smear of scarlet and blue.

" _Clary, my_ baby," Jocelyn gasps, her voice piercing the air. "Val, what's _wrong_ — _I don't know what's wrong with her_!" My mother all but screams, though I think she tries her best not to sound as scared as she is—for me. There's never been a time when my mother didn't know what was wrong, never a time when she didn't know how to fix a problem; I'm scared.

I'm so scared.

 _What is happening to me?_ I think, panicked and terrified and all of the above. They all seem to combine into one emotion that devours me, that has me convinced I'm going to die—but not just me: my babies. My babies are going to die, too.

 _They can't die, my babies can't die!_ I internally scream, leaning into Jocelyn's shoulder, listening as she weeps silently, hearing the few words exchanged between her and Valentine as he speaks hurriedly into what I can only presume to be my cell phone.

My mother smoothes down my hair, brushing it away from my face. The cool air splaying across my skin feels glorious—or it would, if it weren't for my head feeling as though it weren't attached properly; it seems to spin a hundred miles per second and I just can't keep up.

"My little girl…you'll be alright, I promise Clary." Is it wrong of me to wish, even in this state that I'm in, that it was Jace holding me, his scent of lemon and laundry soap and sunshine embracing me instead of that of lavender and lilies and cinnamon?

"Jace," his name slips out involuntarily as I allow Jocelyn to hold me tightly—tighter than she's held me in the past six years. The sound is soft, feeble, barely audible, but somehow, amazingly, someone hears it. I feel strong arms slipping under my knees, supporting my neck as they lift upwards.

"He'll be there when you wake up, Clare, you have my word."

* * *

 ** _~Isabelle~_**

I think Jace might kill us all.

He presses down the gas pedal once more, the engine purring, seeming to accept the challenge. His tawny eyes, entirely focused and narrowed slightly, stare unblinkingly at the road ahead of him, at the twists and turns, curves and signs of the road. He pays attention to next to none of it, taking a sharp left around a bend. I think he's going to snap.

Scratch that, I think he has snapped.

But even as we speed down the road, at a highly illegal rate, my pulse consistently jumps, my palms sweat and I'm nearly positive that I'm edging the line of a nervous breakdown—and I've never even _had_ one!

 _Clary_ , my mind screams, almost as if it expects a response from the redhead. _You have to be alright Clary, I can't lose you_.

Jonathan sits, ramrod straight in the backseat, blinking as if he's trying to will away tears. In all the years I've known Jon, I can't really remember ever seeing him cry. Then again, I never did really notice him in the shadows all those years ago.

Hesitantly, I reach my hand back. He takes it, squeezing hard. The action allows just the smallest hint of relief to flood my system. "How much longer, Jace?" My voice is small and meek to my own ears. Where I, much like my best friend who's life may possible be hanging on a thread at this very moment, don't like to show my weakness—it makes me feel pathetic and helpless. I've never liked that feeling, and neither has she.

Jace curses profoundly, dropping the coveted F bomb multiple times as he runs an anxious hand through his tousled golden locks. "I don't know Isabelle," he snaps finally. "Pray to that good for nothing God that it's less than half an hour, though."

Sighing, I run a hand through my own hair, pushing back the long dark strands hanging down by the sides of my face. "Okay."

"Can't you drive any faster Herondale?" Jonathan demands from the backseat, his grip on my hand tightening fractionally, though not unnoticeably.

Jace growls something under his breath. "I'm driving as fast as I can without risking killing us, asshole. Not only is your sister in the hospital, but my wife and children."

"My sister, my niece and nephew, are in the hospital, too, _asshole_. Isabelle's best friend and God-children." Jon snaps, dropping my hand completely in one swift motion, rubbing both of his hands over his knees.

"Don't you think I know that?!" Jace booms, nearly jerking the steering wheel violently to the right. If he had we might have crashed into a ditch but this is fine—we're fine, Clary is fine, my little babies are fine. Everything is going to be absolutely freaking _fine_.

* * *

The waiting room is crowded, and the way Jon, Jace and I storm in, looking frantic and completely in over our heads, only makes us look like complete lunatics, I'm sure.

Jace takes long-legged strides, gripping the edge of the receptionists' desk with a scary calm look on his face. "What room is Clarissa Herondale in?"

The receptionist looks up lazily, coming very close to falling off her chair as she jumps in surprise at the face glowering down at her. "R-room four-twenty-six, third f-floor." In what looks a nervous manner, she pulls at a loose strand of hair hanging down by her ear. Jace spins on his heel, heading for the stairs—which, mind you, he takes three at a goddamn time—not waiting to see if Jon and I follow. And we do, obviously, because that's Jon's little sister, that's my best friend up there, possibly suffering and in pain and crying.

The door to Clary's room is swinging shut by the time Jonathan and I reach the landing. Jon slows to a stop, his arm coming out to stop me going any further. He turns his head to look at me. "Maybe we should wait—give them they're time."

"Like hell I will," I shove past him. "I need to know she's okay, Jonathan. If I lose her—"

"You're not going to lose her Isabelle, but she needs to see Jace right now."

"I. Don't. Care." And with that, I shove the blonde away from me, pushing open the door to Clary's room just as a streak of red hurries out.

* * *

 ** _~Jace~_**

My breathing is irregular and I can't stand not knowing anymore than I could three minutes ago, speeding down a near empty road.

When I push open the door to Clary's room, Jocelyn and Valentine are already in there, Valentine, ever the comforting husband, is rubbing his hand up and down Jocelyn's back as she sits, hunched over in one of those god-awful plastic hospital chairs, crying.

 _Oh god_.

Valentine looks up as I enter; he nods solemnly, leaning back down to whisper something into his wife's ear. Jocelyn, too, looks up and nods softly, abandoning her hospital chair only to dart out the door as it opens.

In a hurricane of dark hair and heels, comes Isabelle, her dark eyes glowing, and brows furrowed ever so much. "She's alright?" She looks to Valentine for confirmation.

"Yes, Isabelle, she'll be completely fine." She nods her understanding, seeming to slump as she looks from me to Clary and back to Valentine. And so differently from the girl who stormed in but seconds ago, does she exit after Valentine—who so graciously holds open the door for her.

Silence follows their retreat outside.

"Clary?"

"I don't want you here."

Her words startle me, and I could swear I nearly rock on my feet.

"What?" My voice sounds completely stunned and utterly, hopelessly confused to even my own ears, the word tumbling from my lips before I can comprehend what I've said.

Still, Clary doesn't turn to me. "I don't want you here, Jonathan." Her voice is sharp, piercing my chest as though someone had just expertly thrown a dagger at me. "What part of that do you not understand?"

I open and close my mouth a few times. The only time I can recall Clary so vicious and biting and just closed-off, is when we broke up for the first time. We were eighteen and despite being legal adults, we acted like children.

And that's exactly what we're doing here, except it feels more real, like there's a knife to my throat; one wrong move and my blood will coat these bleak white-blue tiles.

"Are you still mad at me?" I blurt. The words, much like before, fall from my mouth without my permission—my body does not do things without my permission; it never does. Over the years, I think I've become accustomed to the fact that I will do things I would not normally do, spontaneously or involuntarily, when she's around.

"No." The one word is cold and cutting; the knife seems to have slit my throat and blood pours slowly from the open wound, soaking my shirt and pants, running down my arms and dripping off my finger tips onto the tiled floor.

"Are you sure?"

"I was never mad at you." Clary sits up, her voice softening marginally when she meets my forlorn expression.

"Then what were you?"

"Hurt."

* * *

 ** _~Isabelle~_**

"Clarissa is suffering from Hyperemesis Gravidarum. Really, it's quite common and non-life threatening." He nods his head at us, nearly in a condescending manner. I don't believe I've wanted to punch someone in the face so badly this past week as I do him.

"How about saying that in English for all us non-med-school graduates?" I arch a brow at him, allowing my arms to cross over my chest, cupping my elbows in my hands.

"It means," his eyes flit down to his clipboard. "That Clarissa is suffering from severe morning sickness. And all that blood you said was in the toilet?" He looks pointedly at Jocelyn and Valentine. They nod, Jocelyn clasping Valentine's hand for dear life. And somehow, dressed in pajamas, they don't look completely, totally ridiculous like you might have expected. "If she's been unable to keep anything down, her throat must be raw—it's like blowing your nose too much and it starts bleeding, if that makes any sense."

"So you're saying she's been throwing up so much that it irritated her throat, and that's where the blood came from?" Jonathan glances at the doctor skeptically.

The doctor nods, seeming beyond exasperation. "That is exactly what I mean." And with that, he turns on his heel and walks back through the doors at which he came, at the end of the hallway.

I slouch into Jon's side. He runs his fingers lightly up and down the side of my arm. "Did you know about this? The morning sickness?" He murmurs into the crown of my head.

"I did," I nod. "I kept quiet because Clary didn't want to worry anyone—she didn't want anyone to fuss over her. And, quite honestly, I think that's justifiable. Though she didn't tell me it was so bad." I frown, feeling my forehead crease and the corners of my mouth tilt down. I wish, sometimes, Clary would let people know—let people know what's wrong so they _can_ fuss over her and make things all better. But she's stubborn, and tirelessly so.

It's a damn good thing I love her and care about her so much or I think I might have strangled her by this point in our friendship.

"Mom, Dad," Jon sighs, pressing me further into his side. Heat emanates from him like it would from a fire; I relish in the delicious heat. "Maybe you should go home, get some sleep. While your sleep-deprived state gives me inspiration for my writing, I don't like seeing the two of you looking like this."

Jocelyn laughs, and it sounds so much like Clary's laugh that a pang goes through me, a sharp needle prick in my chest. I had been worried and scared as Jace sped down the road to get us here. What if it had been serious, more serious than it is right now? What if I had actually _lost_ my best friend? What would I do then?

 _No_ , I think, pushing away the imposing questions that loom, still, in the shadows of my skull, waiting for the perfect time to crawl back and take centre stage.

"She'll be okay?" My voice is quiet, muffled slightly by the fabric of Jon's shirt.

"Physically, yeah, sure. But mentally and emotionally? I can't really say for sure, but I'd think already having almost suffered a miscarriage would have terrified her more than I can comprehend, and all I can imagine my sister thinking about is those two little babies and whether or not she was going to lose them for real this time." His words numb me, provoke me to think.

And I don't think that I have ever agreed with Jonathan about anything in my life more.

* * *

 ** _~Clary~_**

 _Hurt_.

The word betrays my impassive, closed-off expression—I can tell, just by the look on his face as he stands across from me.

Jace blinks, and when he opens his eyes, they've gone cold.

I haven't seen him this way since high school, and I think out of everything I hated most about him back then, it was this: this cold look in his eyes.

"I don't—I shouldn't have said that," I murmur, turning my back to him, missing the view from my studio, the busy street, the sun—the way it rose and set every day.

I feel the bed sink down to my right, and when I turn my head, there he is. Jace sits on the edge of the bed, looking out the small window I'd been staring out of just seconds ago.

"I'm not good at this."

"You're good at everything."

He turns to look at me, his aureate pools suddenly ablaze with a fire that's been absent for so long now. "Don't say that, it's not true."

"Do you want to bet?" I challenge, raising my eyebrows at him. And for a second, it feels like we're eighteen again, bantering even when we're supposed to be fighting, supposed to be sad and hurt and hating each other.

"I really don't," and despite himself and the atmosphere strangling all the oxygen in the room, the left side of his mouth quirks up in a half-hearted grin.

"Okay, _fine_ ," I sigh, resting my head on his paint-clad shoulder—when had he been painting?—allowing the softness of the fabric, and the roughness of the dried paint to comfort me. He stiffens at the contact, and I have to fight the urge to pull away and move over on the bed. We're married; this should be natural. "What are you no good at?"

"Relationships."

I snort, feeling his gaze sweep down to land on me. "Would you like to point out anything else that's painfully obvious?"

He nods. "This view sucks. You hate hospitals. It smells like cleaner and death in here—"

" _Death_?" I ask through my laughter. Oh my god, how long has it been since I've _laughed_?

"Death. But moving on, my darling Clarissa, I want to—to not totally suck at this being a husband thing." He sounds so sincere, and I want so desperately to believe him. Should I, though? He's Jace Herondale, and I'm his wife, always hiding in the shadows and on the verge of falling back into that goddamn pit of sadness and despair.

If you ask me, that doesn't exactly sound like a match made in heaven. It sort of sounds like we were the only two people left over, so we got stuck with one another.

But before—before we used to be Jace and Clary: two teenagers too blindly in love to notice anything going on in the real world.

And I want that again, I really, _really_ do.

More than that, though, I want my kids— _our kids_ —to grow up in a stable home with parents who love each other more than anything else.

I look up at Jace. "I want that, too."

* * *

 **Yeah, so this chapter is all over the place. And before I have people screaming about it, NO, Clary has not forgiven her idiotic husband. Just thought I'd put that out there as a disclaimer of sorts.**

 **So, listen, my wonderful reviewers. As much as I enjoy responding to you all, I really, really don't like that the reviews can sometimes outweigh the actual chapter in word value (if that makes sense). So I'm only going to reply to the ones that kind of provoke me. I'm really sorry but it just takes too much times, guys.**

 **ThatBlondeALB: I don't know whether you should be grateful or scared either, tbh. But here's that Clace you, along with so many others, have been waiting desperately for. :))**

 **Page1of365: Thank God, I know. Here's to the start of a better Clace marriage. I really love Jizzy, so, yeah, but don't worry about Simon: he'll be happy, too.**

 **Janna: I'm glad you like my version of Jizzy. :)) Here's that Clace conversation you wanted. I hope this gave you a little insight, at least, at what putting together the twins' room looks like.**

 **BrunetteAngel12: I really love showing you guys what's going on in each characters mind, so I'm glad you like me changing POV's. What'd you _think_ he was doing at Izzy's? ;)) Unfortunately, I don't think we'll really be seeing as much of Jocelyn and Valentine as much for a little while...never fear, Clary will be home again sometime and her parents won't just drop off the face of the earth. **

**Yumna: How cool is it that you were the 300th reviewer? I think that's pretty cool. Honestly, I'm not sure how you still had faith in me after all I've put you through. Things have to get better after they go bad, don't they? Maybe not.**

 **Debra Williams: Thank you! These babies will be Clace's undoing and their glue, if that make any sense. I'm glad you're enjoying. :))**

 **Shauna Kullden: There will be Clace, but I can't promise it will end the same way. Interestingly twisted...hmm...when my friends ask me what this story is about, I'll tell them exactly that. ;))**

 **Ads S: I savoured it. We're all good. NO, NO, THAT'S WRONG, YOU'RE DEHYDRATED BECAUSE YOU WERE CRYING OVER LADY MIDNIGHT. I really like your idea, btw, I'm probably going to use some aspects of it, if that's all right? I have a lot of free time too, because March Break! Hallelujah! But I mean I want something happy too. (Fingers crossed that you can sign in again.)**

 **lostinthestoryforever: I'm really so happy and just astonished that this story made you feel that way. I still get all shocked and crap when people leave me the kind of review you did because I honestly don't think I'm that good of a writer. But thank you, nonetheless.**

 **I'm A Writing Dreamer: Oops. Hope I didn't kill your soul, too. On a side note, the ship name (at least in my story) is Jizzy. glad you like the characterization btw. ;))**

 **Bottlecap: I'm at Wal-Mart, what do we need, exactly, for world domination? Hmm, sorry about the length of Chapter 13, but why'd you stop reading other stories? (Aside from totally cliché, but tell me what was uber cliché.) I totally agree about Hodge and Seb, just to be very very clear. I apologize for even giving life to those son of a butternutsquash characters.**

 **hs-zu: I apologize Miss Jackson? No, we both know I'm not actually sorry.**

* * *

 **Okay, LISTEN UP!**

 **I NEED BABY NAME SUGGESTION, BOY AND GIRL, NOTHING CORNY PLEASE.**

 **ALSO, SONG SUGGESTIONS TO LSITEN TO WHILE I WRITE.**

 **THANK YOU AGAIN.**

 **SINCERELY, FUTURE WORLD DOMINATOR.**


	15. New

**Hey! I'm back! I'm not rotting face-down in a gutter somewhere!**

 **Side note: I'm complete and utter trash. You'll see why by the end of the chapter.**

* * *

Packing my bags, shoving them all into my car and watching my parents' wave at me from the front steps felt a lot like when I had left for college the very first time. And now, as I stand in my driveway, my hip just brushing the smooth, slightly dirty paint of my car, the feeling is just as unfamiliar as when I had stood in this very driveway and stared up at my new home on moving day, it feels the same way going back to my parents' house felt two and a half weeks ago.

But this is the right thing to do—to actually try and make this work again, with Jace at my side and not in a completely different country—for the kids' sake. I just hope it turns out to be worth it in the long run.

"Hey, I didn't hear you pull in." His voice is smooth like honey and ever hypnotizing, allowing me to break away from my thoughts that were going nowhere good, and fast.

I turn my head to glance at him: ruffled hair crinkled black t-shirt, and bare feet. He shakes hair out of his eyes, the sun hot and bright overhead. A cool breeze sweeps by, sending shivers sweeping down my spine and coercing goose bumps to cover my bare arms, though it ruffles Jace's golden waves further, until they look like sunshine given form.

"Because you were playing." It isn't even a question anymore, but more of a known fact. He's known all the cords by heart since he was fourteen, he's known what he wanted to do with his life since just a little more than halfway through high school—not that he wouldn't have had options otherwise (I mean, come on, have you _seen_ the guy?).

Jace's perfectly crooked grin tells me all I need to know as he walks through multiple puddles, coming over and grabbing my suitcases from within my grasp. I begin to protest, only to have him silence me with a stern look—a look I didn't know he even knew how to pull off.

"Jace, I'm pregnant, not incompetent!" I argue somewhat petulantly—okay, a lot petulantly. I may even cross my arms over my now-heavyset breasts, allowing the pale, freckly sticks to rest over my swollen stomach.

"I never said you were incompetent, did I? But you, Missy—" he punctuates the word with a pointed look in my direction, "are supposed to be on bed rest. And the fact that you somehow convinced Isabelle, your _beyond_ stubborn brother, and myself to let you drive yourself home, is completely over my head. Frankly, I don't even remember having the conversation."

"That—" I allow my lips to ghost over his cheek as I slide past him in my socks, the hardwood smooth and a little slippery beneath me, "is because I didn't ask you."

Jace makes a noise under his breath, something between a groan and a grumbling of something akin to "I'm getting you a cage."

I only laugh as he ascends the staircase to deposit my bags in our bedroom.

* * *

You know what I really love? I love being on bed rest, with a stack of books beside me and one in my hand, while there's cursing and shouting and banging and clanging from somewhere within the house. Really, I love it.

"And how are we feeling today?" Isabelle asks from where she appears in the doorway, her long dark, hair pulled back into a high ponytail.

"Fine, save for the kicking," I shrug, setting my book down on the undisturbed other side of the bed. Rain hits the window, the only sound aside from our quiet breathing. The last time I saw Isabelle was when she burst through the door to my hospital room, a tornado of raven hair and heels, and her presence demanding and swallowing all of the air from the room.

"So," she smiles in a giddy fashion, practically bouncing in her fuzzy gray socks as she all but skips over and pushes my legs over, sitting on the edge of the bed. "When is the next ultrasound? When do I get another picture of my niece and nephew, and or God-children?"

I laugh, at a loss for words momentarily. "Firstly, my next ultrasound is tomorrow, actually, because I just passed twenty weeks last weeks. Secondly, Lightwood—" I shoot her a pointed look, "I'm bringing my husband with me, and _he_ is getting the picture."

Izzy gapes at me, her jaw unhinged and hanging open, dark eyes wide, and her arms in the process of crossing over her chest. "But I'm coming with you." It isn't a question.

"No," I swing my legs over the side of the bed, mirroring Isabelle's position—except I don't cross my arms over my chest, if only because I find it awkward and slightly uncomfortable with my larger breasts. "You're not, Izzy. You've come with me to nearly every ultrasound—hell, you were there when I _found out_ I was pregnant!"

"But Clary! That isn't—that's not—" She drags out my name, stomping her socked foot against the shiny hardwood, though I think she forgot she wasn't wearing her heels, as she looks down at her feet, a sort of surprised expression upon her face, when no sound echoes through the room. "That's not _fair_! Clarissa Adele Fairchild, that is _not_ fair!"

"Herondale, Izzy, my last name is Herondale."

She raises her arms to the ceiling, as if praying to a higher power, and then drops then down her sides rather dramatically, proceeding to flop onto her back, hair splayed out around her head as she turns to pout at me from where she lays on the mattress. "It hardly matters; you sign your art Clarissa Fairchild."

"Okay, moving on Isabelle—"

"I want to see my niece and nephew." She narrows her eyes at me a little, snapping her head to face the other direction. My _god_ —will it be like this once the twins can talk?

"Iz, will you just shut up for a second?" I ask, scrubbing my hands slowly down the sides of my face. She looks at me attentively, her obsidian eyes dark and glimmering with a hint of amusement. "I'll let you help me pick out furniture for their bedroom, if that makes you feel better. Oh, and paint too."

She bites at her lower lip, eyes flickering to the empty doorway, suddenly the only sound is the cursing and banging and clanging from somewhere within the house. "Sure. That sounds…good," and then she smiles at me—almost hesitantly.

Why do I have this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach that I'm missing something?

* * *

The whole car ride to the hospital, Jace kept tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, fiddling with the radio, whether it be the volume or the station, he kept glancing back and forth between myself and the road. Suffice to say he seemed nervous.

And now that we're here, sitting in the waiting room, women with protruding bellies and small children spread out through the rather empty room, I think he's going to have a full-out nervous breakdown. I don't think it helps, either, when a softly smiling woman with watery gray eyes and brown hair pulled up into a loose bun calls my name and leads us down the hallway that I have become quite well-acquainted with.

"Is this the right way?" Jace murmurs to me as we walk, his hand clutching my own as if it's a lifeline and he's a dying man.

"Yes," I say, smiling faintly as one of the babies begins to kick softly.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive Jace."

"Like positive-positive, or—?" He squeezes my hand tighter.

"Jace," I turn to look up at him, my head tilted somewhat and a mildly exasperated expression on my face. "I've been here at least twice with Izzy now, I am absolutely sure this is the right way." Up ahead, the nurse chuckles softly, turning a corner.

He exhales heavily. "Yeah, of course." Those are the last words uttered by either of us as we continue on after the nurse.

* * *

I don't think I have ever witnessed Jace this nervous, not even performing in front a crowd of millions. Honestly, I might be enjoying watching him squirm. Just this once.

"And—oh, there they are," Charlotte turns to smile at me, her eyes flickering to Jace momentarily. "There's the girl—" she positions the wand over the lower left side of my stomach, proceeding to move it over to the right. "And there is your little boy."

I smile gently at the screen—I'm going to be a _mom_. This is absolutely surreal.

"You said you've been feeling kicking already?" Charlotte looks to me for confirmation, running the wand through the cold jelly on my stomach. I nod. "Well, you should be feeling more movement from this point on. You might even notice a pattern to their movements."

Jace shifts on his chair, his hand tightening around mine. He hasn't said a word, though when I dance my fingers across the smooth, tanned skin of his wrist, I feel his pulse racing and jumping every time he sees something new.

"Of course this is because their fluttering movements have now become full-fledged kicks and nudges." Admittedly, the thought of having something—two something's, actually—kicking me from the inside is scary. Being young and myself, I never imagined what being pregnant would encompass—surely I thought of my husband, whomever he would turn out to be, with his hand upon the bump settled between my hips as my baby kicked, both of us smiling softly at the movement.

Reality, as I have come to learn the hard way, is never the way you imagine it will be. And sometimes, that's fine. Sometimes it turns out to be better than what you thought you wanted.

* * *

Isabelle deems today the "perfect day to go shopping—you know, before you…pop." And when I gave her a look like she was crazy, and told her I was barely going on six months, she said "let's agree to disagree, then." And that was that.

The paparazzi are having a field day; I'm sure, as I browse around a baby store, a few different articles of impossibly adorable clothing slung over my forearm. "So, baby names," Isabelle appears at my side, a sparkly silver baby dress looking like sequins threw up on it clutched by the hanger in her left hand—in fact, it kind of reminds me of Isabelle's prom dress; she had looked like a moon goddess, with silver bracelets coiling up and down her arms, silver bangles jingling around her ankles, sparkly silver-and-gold eyelids and cheekbones, along with a pair of killer heels. I smile at the memory, recalling how we had danced until our feet had ached…and I'd peeled off my own supposed glass slippers and danced barefoot with Jace.

"Haven't thought of any," I tell her once more—not missing the eye roll as I turn back to a rack of fuzzy baby socks—because I'm not entirely sure about the few names I've been turning around in my head for a short while now.

Izzy perches a hand on her cigarette pants-clad hip, the action nudging the fabric of her clingy burgundy crop top up a few millimetres. "Fine, if you're so insistent—off the top of your head."

I hum softly, nearly under my breath as I pull up those few names I've been tossing around in my head like basketballs. Isabelle's probably going to kill me for a few of these but—here goes nothing. "Okay, so, I was thinking for a girl: Aria, Ash—short for Ashley—Celaena, Manon, Madison, or Allison."

The black-haired woman gives me a side look, letting out an exasperated breath as her hand returns to her hip. "Celaena and Manon, really?"

"What?"

"You _cannot_ name your children after book characters— _especially_ book characters with such absurd names! Especially when you have a perfectly good namesake—" she gestures vaguely to herself, "—right here." She adds with a huff.

I fight the urge to let out an unattractive snort as a camera flashes behind me, followed by shouting in an authoritative tone—if I had to guess, which I don't, not really, I would say that yet another one of the paparazzo's invasive, intrusive vultures just got kicked out.

"And tell me, oh beloved best friend of mine, why would I name my kid after the poster-child for bad ideas?" I plant one of my own hands on my hip, though it proves to be difficult with my swollen stomach—of course, I can't really call myself huge anymore, considering some of the other women I've had the pleasure of seeing shop around the various stores Izzy has dragged me to: they're all big as balloons, some as far along as me roughly, or less, and still bigger than me.

According to them, I was lucky to still be as small as far along as I am. In sum, back pain sucks just as bad as having to go to hug a toilet for weeks on end.

"Because from bad ideas comes great memories!" Izzy all but cries, swinging her arms around, and then, seeming to remember the clothes she herself is carrying, stops.

While that may be true enough, I'm not going to tell her that, and I'm certainly not naming my daughter after her. After a moment Izzy sighs, rubbing at her black-lined eyes and lashes lathered thickly in mascara. And though the action should have left her with racoon eyes that would make her want to hide under her bed for a week, it simply gives her a slight smoky-eye effect, proving to me for what seems the billionth time that there are just some people who will always be gorgeously beautiful no matter the circumstances…Isabelle and my husband, for example.

"Whatever, tell me the boys names."

I smile lightly, knowing that she won't approve of the one name I'm actually very much considering for my little boy. "Noel, Axton, and, my personal favourite, Patch."

Isabelle nods for a beat, and then, I can almost hear the gears whirring and clicking in her head, putting the pieces together. "Patch? Seriously—you've got to be kidding, Clare—Patch Cipriano, the one fictional boy I had a crush on."

I grin unabashedly at her. "It was the one book series that I forced you to read that you liked."

"Yeah," Isabelle smiles fondly, as if remembering the same thing I am: the day I came up to her and shoved _Hush, Hush_ at her in ninth grade, demanding she read it unless she desired her closet burned to cinders. "I remember."

We rest in that same comfortable, easy silence as we pay for the clothes—Izzy claiming that she needed to buy her niece and nephew a "welcome to the world" gift. And, yes, that did include the sparkly silver dress which I had officially deemed the moon-goddess dress.

"Clary?" Iz says as I toss the last of the bags lining my forearm into the trunk of her car.

Turning to look up at her, I say, "Yeah?"

"You should name him Patch."

* * *

 **I told you I'm complete and utter trash. The Hush, Hush series has turned me to a numb, internal emotional wreck and I'm only just starting the third book.**

 **I'm actually debating writing a story for Hush, Hush after I finish the series. (Which, trust me, won't be long because I finished the first two books in less than a day each.)**

 **I do have a few excuses as to the total lack of updates:**

 **1\. School science fair. (Shoot me.)**

 **2\. Hush, Hush.**

 **3\. I'm lazier than anyone you've ever known.**

 **4\. Lack of inspiration for this chapter.**

 **And there you have it ladies and gentlemen, my sucky excuses.**

 **It's Kris: Trust me, I had a whole list of name planned out in my head, and when the time came, my mind was completely blank like an erase scrubbed down a scribble-coated page. You have no idea how much I enjoy changing POV's, I love getting in and getting dirty in someone's mind that we haven't really had that great of a chance to explore.**

 **PJOAAR5TMIHPDIA4599: I listened to your suggestions (some of them I already was listening to) and they're fantastic. I actually really love the name Damien...maybe if they have more babies.**

 **xTheMorningStarx: All right, let's tackle this beast. So, it is coming up very soon (next chapter, I'm thinking) we'll find out why exactly Sizzy's marriage fell apart. Believe it or not, there is a legit reason I so cruelly broke them apart other than I hard core ship and wanted to write Jizzy. This may or not be a spoiler, but I can't bring myself to care, but, no, our delectable rock star is not going to sacrifice his career for his wife and children. Whether that's good or bad, we'll see. You probably know already, but he did write Clary a song (Flawless by The Neighborhood), but there's another one coming, I swear. By the way, I listened to the songs and yes. Just yes.**

 **Yumna: Here we go *cracks knuckles*, Jace and Clary had been dating for roughly four and a half years before they got married at 21. At that point, Jace was just starting to get picked up by the media, just starting to hear his songs on the radio, and he didn't know the beast that was fame. Like it does to so many people, (take KoalaKaos's Jace from her story _The Beauty Is The Beast_ for example) fame changes people, alters who they are. No one can endure that kind of stress and stay the same. And to begin with, Jace wasn't an open person, so for him to unburden himself to Clary, his fiancée and soon-to-be wife, didn't seem to be an option. Eventually, he surrendered to the spotlight and he didn't know who he was without it. He doesn't know how to be without it, and thus makes him bad at communicating, bad with keeping up relationships in general. That guy is damn lucky to have Clary, the stubborn girl. **

**oesteffel: At this point, so much damage has been done to not only their marriage, but their relationship, that nothing might ever fix it, and sometimes that's just the way things are. (I'll leave you with that ominous response and let you ponder a little more.)**

 **Guest: Clary and Jace need each other more than they can or will ever comprehend, even if that means platonically or romantically.**

 **I'm A Writing Dreamer: Cue evil cackle and lightning strike in the background. All of you better watch out, you have no idea what wicked skeletons I have in my closet. (insert snort from someone who clearly doesn't believe that) JIZZY IS MY NEW OTP PEOPLE WATCH OUT.**

 **Janna: Oh, well, Happy belated-birthday, if I missed it. It seems that you're seeing it the way I am; there might be no redemption for these two.**

 **Shauna Kullden: I completely and utterly suck at everything so...we can suck together.**

 **Rwch13: #soglad**

 **mkxoxosmileyface: Why thank you *curtsies*. Frig, I love Alex and Sierra, they give me major feels. I'm so glad I could paint such a vivid picture of their relationship, that's what I was aiming for.**

 **Ads S: BRUH. THIS IS GETTING BEYOND RIDICULOUS. IS IT WORKING NOW? CAN YOU SIGN IN YET? URGH.**

 **Yeah, tbh I almost cried when I wrote that part because it reminded me so much of my best friend and I just. I'm intensely overjoyed that I caused you such emotional turmoil. Everyone is crying. Everyone is balling like big, diaper-wearing, bottle-suckling, wailing babies.**

 **HAVE YOU READ LADY MIDNIGHT YET. OMFG THE PAIN IS SO REAL, MY HEART ACHES WITH THE THOUGHT. BUT HUSH HUSH IS TEARING ME APART. PLEASE SAY YOU'VE READ IT.**

 **Bottlecap: (I think I'm growing on you.)**

 **What's up? Hmm, well Hush, Hush has ruined me. So there's that. I mean, I lay there dead and dying most of the time anyway, what's not to love about it?** **Now I just need to find somewhere to get bubbleguns-I've got a crapload of chocolate so we're good on that front. I don't have any dungeons so...Do you?** **Oh god, I hate those kinds of stories, I mean, seriously. Sometimes, though, they're written really well with an amazing plot twist. I will swear you a blood oath that I will finish this story, even if takes me until I graduate college (I mean, I sure as hell hope not because that would sucks, that's like eight years away). Hmm, I had my name on Wattpad as World Dominator for a while, so maybe that could be one evil villain name? What about Kickass? I like that, even if Evan Peters (Bless his hottie soul) already stole that one.**

 **Lava: I honestly don't feel like the next time Clary and Simon see each other there'll be a confrontation, as Clary dislikes them and more will be explained next chapter. I think it'll be more like, "well, are you happy?" But I'm not entirely sure right now.**

 **.suffice: I listened to Creep by Radiohead (I swear I had thought I'd heard it before) and I honestly thought it did fit Jace, save for the stalker part, 'cause, ya know. Anyways, anymore good songs up your sleeve?**

* * *

 **PLEASE TELL ME WHETHER YOU'VE READ HUSH, HUSH; I NEED TO FANGIRL WITH SOMEONE.**

 _ **Also, very important: I'm debating writing sort of a prequel of this story, around the time Clary and Jace are dating and getting engaged and then it'll end when they get married and pick up with this story. It will be able to be read as a standalone, I'm just not sure what you guys think. Yes? No?**_


	16. Lost

**Yay! New chapter so soon. Who would've thought?**

 **I loved writing this chapter, though I'm willing to bet that at least one person is going to be...well, not pleased with me.**

 **Oops.**

* * *

I haven't been here in weeks, but there isn't a speck of dust lining the room, not on the furniture, the canvases leaning against the wall, the stiff leather couch, the few picture frames. Nothing—almost as if someone had been coming everyday during my absence and cleaning up.

The desire to paint, to sketch, to be at home with myself seems to leak from every orifices on my body. My right hand twitches at the sight of my favoured paint brush, the wooden handle nearly devoid of paint, and the bristles bent and stained multiple colours from so much use.

It might sound odd, but I'm so very tempted to get down on my knees and weep, worship my sanctuary that I have neglected for weeks now. Before I even get such a chance, however, the lock clicks open behind me, the door swinging open—I know for a matter of fact that I locked the door behind me when I got inside.

I spin around, as rapidly as I dare, my hair lifting off of where it hangs down my back.

I gape, struck utterly stupid at the sight before me.

" _Simon_?"

His head snaps up, and, in the process, his glasses nearly tumble to the ground. Brown hair, freshly cut, hangs in front of his eyes. "Clary?" His eyes roam over me, settling momentarily on the bump between my hips. "Oh my God, Clary," he envelops me in a hug, holding me as tightly as he dares. "You never called—and I heard about you almost miscarrying—oh, _god_ , I was so worried, Clare." He squeezes my shoulders tightly, pressing me into his once-lanky frame.

"Why didn't you come see me? Call me?" I manage through the emotions working their way up from my heart, into my mind and fueling my thoughts, up my throat and choking me.

"I was afraid—god I'm so _stupid_. I was just so, so scared, Clare—scared that you wouldn't want me in your life after what I did to Izzy." His breath in the space between my shoulder and neck stirs the small hairs at the back of my neck and some longer pieces.

I push Simon away, and for a heart shattering second, he looks absolutely, downright crushed at the action. "I'll always need you in my life, Si," I tell him, looking up meaningfully, meeting his coffee eyes with my own.

Chuckling nervously, Simon reaches over to where he'd set his coffee cup and the brown paper bag he had been carrying upon arriving in the studio. Reaching inside, he unveils an Everything Bagel smothered in delectable cream cheese. My mouth waters at the heavenly sight. "Half for milady, half for me," Simon gives me half and takes a mouthful out his own half.

This is what we did everyday: he met me at the studio in the morning, sometimes at ungodly hours, brought a bagel and coffees. He would sit on the stiff black leather couch behind us and go through what seemed hundreds of papers concerning the cases he was working on, while I painted my life away, content to hum and let the paintbrush guide me as it danced across the smooth canvas.

I scrub my hands down either thigh, attempting to wipe off any remnants of the bagel that still may have lingered on my hands. "Sit," I order Simon, motioning with my chin for him to make himself at home on the couch.

"Yes, Sir." I roll my eyes at him and snatch up a canvas from the corner of the room, placing it upon my easel, running my fingers absently up and down the seam of my jeans as I scrutinize the blank canvas, debating what I should do with it, what colours to smother it with.

And that is when it hits me, the realization that I no longer feel my world spinning out of control, the carpet ripped out from under me. I have the last piece of the puzzle in place and all that's left to do is mend the broken bits.

* * *

 ** _~Isabelle~_**

Staring down at the papers in front of me, my vision seems to shift, swerve and suddenly it seems a totally useless sense. All that's left to do is sign my name on the dotted line—no longer Isabelle Sophia Lewis, but once more Isabelle Sophia Lightwood.

I thought the pain had finally subsided, but there it goes again, a steady pulse throughout my entire body. All my thoughts shift from Simon, to my baby boy, to Jon, until they're all muddled together and nothing more than a smear as the thoughts spin round and round inside my head.

How am I to explain to my little Max, my sweet innocent Max, that his parents won't ever live together again and that he already has a busted family at the age of four? He won't understand, and I don't expect him to—I don't _want_ him to. I don't want him to realize with those all-knowing eyes of his and that inexplicable perceptiveness for his age that his mom made possibly the biggest mistake of her life by falling in love with the moment and thinking she was in love with the guy. That I fell in love with the memorable moments, the years of solid, sturdy friendship and thought I was in love with him. I wasn't, and I somehow fooled myself into thinking I was, I somehow let it slide that I was seeing what I wanted to see: Simon wasn't flirting with his newest client, Maureen something, he wasn't spending as much time away from me as humanly possible without leaving his friends and son wondering if something was wrong, he wasn't keeping me at arm's length and refusing to touch me.

But he was. He was doing every single last thing that I wanted to pretend he wasn't.

On top of that, I practically abandoned my son, leaving him to Maryse, the beautiful woman turned bitter by her son eloping and the father of her children never caring, never loving her.

What kind of person am I?

Is my life just like that of my best friend's? Am I only fooling myself here?

"You have that look," Jon says from where he sits, typing away on his Macbook.

"What look?" I frown, picking up the pen I dropped carelessly to the table so many minutes ago.

"The same one my sister gets," he looks up from his rapid typing, giving me a pointed look, one pale eyebrow arched as if to punctuate the point he's making.

I want to flip him off so badly right now, and I say as much. He chuckles, shaking his head and returning to his typing.

"Aren't you supposed to be at Clary's, putting together that surprise nursery?" I drawl, doodling on the corner of one of the many pages that lay out in front of me.

"Can't. She's at home with Jace right now and I think she's starting to get suspicious—and now that she is officially off bed rest, according to Dr. Branwell, it's going to be much easier to get caught in the act."

"She's not at home." I say, sucking in a deep breath and finally— _finally_ —writing my name across the dotted line—albeit a little sloppily, but it'll do— _Isabelle Sophia Lightwood_.

"What? Of course she is," Jonathan gives me a disbelieving look, his eyebrows furrowed and pieces of bright white hair falling into his enthralling emerald eyes.

"No, she's not."

"She is."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"Is not, Jon." I say with finality, pinning him with a stare challenging him to say otherwise. He doesn't. "As a matter of fact, she told me she was going to the studio early this morning—Christ, I think it was just shy of six a.m. And if my women's intuition is on spot, which it always is, Simon is there with her. He always hangs around the studio—we all used to."

Jon's eyes seem to soften at the mention of my now-ex husband, what with the papers signed by both parties.

"As long as she doesn't manage to stab herself with a paintbrush, it's fine by me." He says, shaking his head once again and returning to his writing. I slink around, behind his chair and, with my lips at the shell of his ear, say softly, "Kiss me."

He turns to me. "I'm working; this article has to be submitted my twelve a.m., Iz."

"Kiss me," I say again, this time more firmly. Groaning, he complies but I can feel his smile against my lips as he gives me my way.

* * *

 ** _~Clary~_**

Painting not only pays the bills, but it's a stress reliever.

So I'd like to think it's safe to say that when a blonde girl drops by my office with a pristine-looking briefcase in hand and a small smile upon her small mouth, I'm wound tighter than any bun Izzy has ever tried to tame my hair with.

Simon wraps one long arm around her shoulders and presses a kiss to her forehead. He murmurs something in her ear that has her giggling and pulling away, dropping his arm back down to his respective side.

"Uh, Si?" This poor excuse of a sentence seems to be what breaks whatever bubble or trance-like state they're in and each of them take a step away from the other.

My friend clears his throat. "Oh, right—of course. Clare, this is Maureen, my…my, um—fiancée. Maureen and I are engaged."

I choke on my saliva. It takes a few incredibly awkward beats of my coughing my lungs out before I can manage to form a coherent thought, even with alarms and sirens wailing and screeching inside me. "Engaged? Have you even signed the divorce papers yet?"

Simon nods curtly. This is not the place or time for him to be curt with me; I'm a pregnant woman with hormones to spare and I can reign Hell down on him with but a withering stare—not to mention the fact that he has no _right_ to be curt with me, or with anyone, really, because once again: _he_ _cheated on my best friend_.

"You know what; I think you need to get back to the office, Simon." He flinches at my use of his full name. "I have a lot of work to catch up on and you being here is not helping me on any front."

Simon and I have never had serious fights—not since high school when the bigger picture was but a small window that contained only us and Izzy and maybe Jace. How could I have forgiven him so easily? I saw what Izzy looked like, scrambling down her driveway as fast as humanly possible, barefoot and soaked, tugging Max along behind her.

That was not something that deserved to be forgotten, even if I had stupidly forgiven him. Even if Izzy is happier with my brother instead of Simon, I can't help but feeling that he's just marrying Maureen out of spite. I can't help the pity that swirls in the pit of my stomach for the poor girl, getting tangled up with a married man and then being responsible for tearing a family apart. Or is that even how she views what has transpired? Might it be possible that she's one of those girls that falls in love with an older man and is convinced they'll ride off into the sunset together? Because if she is, she has most certainly gotten her wish.

"I'm really sorry about just barging in like that," Maureen offers sympathetically. I have this strong, quite alarming urge to smash my newly-painted canvas over her pretty blonde head and stick my tongue out at her as I internally sneer. Jesus, what has gotten into me? "I just—I woke up and saw that Simon had forgotten his briefcase and I thought— You know what, never mind, it doesn't matter; you don't want to hear any excuses. To you, I'm just the girl that tore apart not only your best friends' marriage, but tore apart a family, also. Oh great, I'm rambling—I just I'm really sorry and I thought you ought to know that." Maureen brings her hand up and settles it on her forehead, grimacing as her words reverberate through the room. At least she knows what she's done.

"Honestly," I give her a pointed look. "I don't blame you for any of what happened—I blame Izzy and Simon: it was their marriage and they did exactly what my husband and I did to ours, just differently. Unfortunately, in their case, they have Max to worry about. So, yeah."

Maureen, looking ever-relieved, runs a visibly shaking hand through her long straight locks, giving a nervous laugh. "I thought you would, so—so thank you, Clare."

I clear my throat softly. "It's Clary, not Clare."

Her eyes widen considerably, hand freezing on top of her head. "Seriously? Ohmigod, I'm really sorry about that—it's just that's the name Simon refers to you by and I thought…"

I shake my head. "Nope, just regular old Clary."

She smiles and then, as if hiding a laugh, swipes her hand over her mouth. "Regular old Clary Herondale, I presume?"

"That'd be me."

"Well," Maureen entwines her thin lightly bronzed fingers through Simon's own. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

* * *

When I get home, the door is unlocked. For a suffocating, panicked moment, I fear the worst, my body seems to swelter and then freeze all at once. I look back at Jace's parked car, sitting idly in the driveway and at mine next to it.

Pushing open the door, I kick off my shoes, calling out, "Jace? Jace where the hell are you?" as I run—or as much as I can without something akin to fear and panic laced together hand in hand squeezes the blood-pumping organ in my chest—up the stairs, taking them two at a time, if I can manage.

Throwing open our bedroom door, I look to the immaculately clean space, to the pristinely white bed in the center of it all; on it sits a manila envelope with my name written in elegant script across the back; Isabelle's handwriting.

Walking almost numbly to the bed, I frown, tearing open the envelope—dumping it upside down into my hand, the contents spill out.

Each and every single thing that falls from the manila envelope is a photograph; Jace, Izzy, and Jon.

I flick through them, reading all the little annotates written on the backs. The first picture is of Jon and Jace, bickering as always—but it's cute, somehow. The second is of my brother and Jace once more, the whole front of Jace's shirt painted a purple-ish gray colour, his right arm as well, while Jon's hair looks as though he'd dyed it from the bright, entrancing white colour to the same purple-gray that coloured my husband. On the back is written: _Damn boys, can't keep the paint on the walls or in the cans. Always got to make a mess—and on the hardwood, no less!_ I can just hear the words leaving Isabelle's mouth indignantly, stamping her heeled foot on the ground to punctuate her words.

The third is Jace and Jon once more, puzzling over complicated-looking instructions, on the back is written three words, three words so simple I can't believe how loud I laugh: _Idiots, stupid idiots._

I continue to go through the photos, smiling softly or laughing at the pictures and annotates Isabelle has left for me on the back of each. One of my favourite so far is one Jace must have taken—well, actually there are two. The first is of Jon and Izzy completely wrapped up in each other, oblivious to the outside world as they kiss, the second is of Jon, cheeks red and bright as if he'd just been outside for an hour in the cold, and Izzy, flipping off the cameraman. Otherwise known as my husband.

On the back of the second one is scribbled: _Bastard. I'm going to commit a violent, brutal murder, and you have to help me clean & bury the body because you brought this complete jackass into our lives._ Not exactly true, but if it hadn't been for me Izzy, Jon, and Simon would have escaped Hurricane Jace nearly unscathed.

The following picture is but a photo of paint-spattered hardwood, with the words, _Look what your dumb-A husband did_ , written in large script across the back. I giggle at that, feeling a few sharp kicks from one of the babies or both of them.

At the very back of the stack is my absolute new favourite hands-freaking-down.

It's of Jace—just Jace. He's fallen asleep against the side of a white crib, paint down the right side of his chiseled face, a drooping and slightly crusty paint brush clutched tightly in his left hand. His ochre curls are mussed with dry bits of paint in them, his shirt dirty and rumpled along with his pants. I smile and feel tears gathering in my eyes, my throat seeming to constrict around the lump within it.

I flip it over, making a note somewhere in the back of my mind that I'll have to ask Isabelle for the digital copy of this picture to use as my home screen on my phone. The script on the back of this particular photo is smaller, neater, it seems.

 _Believe it or not—and whether I want to admit it or not—this whole orchestration was not my idea, but that of our delicious rock star. Of course neither him nor your hottie brother have the fashion/interior design skills that I posses, lucky for you, otherwise the nursery would be black and or brown, with bales of hay for cribs. Meaning that I picked out everything—thank me later._

 _Moving on—all that banging and clanging that's been driving you out of that curious mind of yours (don't lie to me, Clarissa, I know it irritated the shit out of you) has been very much necessary in creating the very nursery that is only four rooms down the hall from you (on your left)._

 _P.S. I painted Jace's nails in his sleep (hot pink). He is not going to be happy._

When I finish reading the note, I don't know whether to laugh or burst out in happy tears. Is it possible that I'm getting back the boy I lost somewhere under the spotlight?

Tossing the pictures on the bed, I scurry to the fourth room down the hall on my left. The door is closed, and for a moment, I just stand there, smiling stupidly to the same very door.

I twist the brass knob, bumping it with my hip when it won't give. Finally, it does give and I step inside, struck stupid at the sight laid out in front of me: Jace, leaning up against one of two white cribs, a paint brush clutched in his left hand, his skin painted as well as a few choice curls atop his head, and his clothes completely ruffled and rumpled.

I smile down at him, kneeling down beside him and gently tapping his shoulder. The touch makes my skin prickle and tingle where I touched him. "Jace," I say softly. For the life of me, I can't drop the surely beaming smile that's spread from ear to ear.

"Jace," I say louder this time. He blinks a few times groggily, almost as if he's surprised to be woken.

I throw my arms around him, burying my face in his chest, breathing in the comforting scent of lemon, and laundry soap, and just utter sunshine that clings to him—not to mention the faint aroma of paint that seems to cling to his clothes.

"Clary?" He _is_ surprised, I can tell by the tone of his voice.

"I love you," I tell him, holding him tighter, trying to pull him closer, even with the bump separating us.

His calloused hand tucks a stray curl behind my ear. "I love you, too, Clare. Always."

Just like that, I feel not only my heart and mind turn into a puddle, but I feel my pulse jump and spike indefinitely at his words. And all because of Jace Herondale—the one I lost to the spotlight all those years ago.

* * *

 **Aw, aren't I just total Clace trash?**

 **I thought you would all like this chapter, and huge thanks to Ads S who gave this incredible idea. She's legit amazing and each and every one of you should read her stories - she's a fantastic writer.**

 **CasuallyLazyKitten: If anyone enjoyed Jace squirming more than you, it was definitely me. Trust me. Izzy is seriously the best. Like, no one can deny it, she's just totally kickass; a kickass friend, kickass at her job, kickass in heels, kickass barefoot. I hope you had a good weekend as well (better than me because I've been an emotional wreck over Hush, Hush).**

 **oesteffel: I hope this answered some or all questions you had about Simon and his mystery chick. Oh, and there's that Jizzy you wanted. ;))**

 **ZammieandPercabeth4ever: I CAN'T HANDLE IT. NO, NO, NO, NO AND MORE NO. HAVE I INTROUCED YOU TO MY GOOD FRIEND NO? I JUST STARTED FINALE AND I'M ALREADY A WRECK BECAUSE OF PATCH AND NORA.**

 **Janna: Yeah, that's what I thought. And what's even better is the prequel would be able to be read as a standalone. I'm glad I could provide some non-totally-angst-y Clace for you. :))**

 **BrunetteAngel12: Hehe, sorry about the vague marriage, but know we'll have a much more...available (?) opportunity to explore that part of their history together and what they went through. I bet this chapter had a lot of that entertaining-ness you enjoy so much from our pregnant redhead. YOU UNDERSTAND ME, CHILD. ISABELLE IS THE EFFING EIPTOME OF PERFECTION I LOVE HER SO MUCH.**

 **Guest: Oh, thank you so much! I'm glad all of you are reacting so well to the idea of a prequel-type story. :))**

 **Yumna: Hey! Quick question: I saw someone named Yumna follow me on Pinterest, was it you? And, no, unfortunately I do not have Facebook due to certain...er, issues with social media. I'm so happy you enjoyed the last chapter, it kind of just felt like boring filler to me, but maybe that's because I wrote it.**

 **Ads S: I USED YOUR IDEA BRUH.**

 **OHMYGOD YESS I'M SO HAPPY *CLAPPING* FANFICTION ISN'T BEING A JERK ANYMORE.**

 **I cannot string any of the millions of words in the English language together to describe to you how happy I am that you've read Hush, Hush. (I'M GOING TO SPOIL SOMETHING FOR YOU, BUT OUR LITTLE BABY CLACE FETUS BOY IS GOING TO BE NAMED PATCH!) I'm reading Finale right now and I'm not even a hundred pages in and I'm not prepared, I know it. AND HOW DARE _YOU_ , A, THINKING I DIDN'T HAVE A COMPLETE MELTDOWN READING "A LONG CONVERSATION" AT THE END OF LADY MIDNIGHT.**

 **You got it, hit the goddamn nail right on the head: Hush, Hush has made me an emotional tyrant ruling over my readers with tears streaming down either side of my face and I'm taking it out on you. THE PREQUEL IS A GO. I REPEAT, THE PREQUEL IS A GO HOMIE.**

 **Bottlecap: You're ging to hate me and love me for recommending Hush, Hush, I'm so sorry breh.**

 **Oh, that's awesome - cant you get the dungeon guy's number? How many do you think we'll need? And World Dominator is good, it's cool?**

 **Trust me, you're growing on me. I'd be utterly devastated if you stopped reviewing. 'Cause damn. We're the perfect partners in crime.**

 **(Just graduating this year, woohooooooo, high school.)**

 **Shadowhushdarkpo: Mhmm, there are four books and I plowed through the series in like 3 days and now I'm on the last one and I'm sad. Never actually heard of the Darkest Powers, but I'm definitely going to check that out. Scout's honour (I'm not a scout, I'd die in the wilderness).**

* * *

 **MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I HAVE SOMETHING BIG PLANNED FOR NEXT CHAPTER AND IT'S GOING TO WRECK YOU IN ALL THE BEST AN WORST POSSIBLE WAYS.**

 **Thought you guys deserved fair warning since you've stuck with me through this angst-y trash I like to call writing. :))**


	17. Back To November

**THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 400 REVIEWS! OMFG YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME!**

 **Oh, God, I'm so evil. You'll soon understand. I'm bringing the angst back, and I'm not going to ease you into it this time.**

 **I was kind of just floating around with this storyline his past month, trying to decide what to do with it because I didn't really have a plan and then - a light bulb went off, and you're all going to dislike me very much. So I thought I'd keep this chapter mostly light and give you a parting goodbye to our cutesy Clace.**

 **(Can I just say that Jizzy's child is going to be so damn gorgeous? And so are the Clace babies. Trust me.)**

 **OH, IMPORANT NEWS, I ALMSOT FORGOT: I'M WRITING TWO PREQUELS, ONE OF CLARY AND JACE AND EVERYONE IN HIGH SCHOOL BEFORE CLACE GOT TOGETHER AND THE OTHER PROMSIED ONE WHERE THEY'RE LIKE ENGAGED AND STUFF. YEAH IT'S GONNA BE GREAT GET EXCITED.**

* * *

"We are not naming our children after dead rock stars!"

"And we're also not naming our children after fictional characters!"

"You're impossible!" I huff, tugging on a knot in my hair particularly hard. I wince at the action.

" _I'm impossible_? _I'm_ impossible?!" Jace retorts hotly, his golden cheekbones tinted with the lightest shade of pink.

"Yes."

He chuckles, falling back onto our bed. I smile at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I run my brush through the thick tendrils of hair upon my head. Things feel different, there's something different about us. I can't put my finger on it, either. Not that it's a bad thing, but it's…unfamiliar. Yes, that's it— _unfamiliar_.

I set my brush on the counter, braiding my hair back into a French braid. It certainly isn't easy, but somehow I manage it, though it probably looks like someone teased my hair and then tied a bunch of knots in it to finish off the look. Walking back over to the bed, where Jace is laying, and his arms now positioned underneath of his head, I feel fluttering movements in my stomach. Within seconds, though, those soft, fluttering kicks turn into full-fledged ones, where it feels like the twins are having a kick-boxing match with one another.

"They're kicking," I inform Jace softly. He bolts upright, aureate eyes wide and alert.

"Who's kicking?"

I cock my head at him, the faintest amused smile upon my lips. "The babies." I tell him after a few beats of his confused silence. This seems to put him at ease and wind him up all at once—he visibly deflates, only for tension to invade his posture and stiffen his movements.

As much as we haven't gotten along the past couple months, my immediate reaction is still to want to comfort him, to take away what's causing him pain, putting him on edge. It's funny really, because I haven't felt this way for months now, and it's such a foreign feeling coursing through me that I'm not quite sure what to do, how to deal with it.

Hesitating only once, I take his hand and place it over my stomach. The stiffness in him seems to melt when I drop his hand softly, allowing it to just sit over the spot where the twins—or one of them, at least—is practicing soccer.

Jace seems absolutely fascinated by their movements, his hand sweeping over the expanse of my stomach just as my cell phone begins to vibrate violently on the nightstand. My husband reaches over to press ignore when I catch sight of the caller ID: Izzy.

"No, it's Izzy." I tell him, allowing him to hand me the phone.

I swipe at the screen to answer, pressing the device to my ear. "Hey."

"Clary, I don't know what to do." Her voice cracks, her tone panicked.

"Iz, what's wrong?"

" _What's wrong_? I'm _pregnant_ , Clarissa!" She shouts, and even Jace looks up from where he had been staring, completely enthralled, at my stomach. His eyes are wide, and he quirks an eyebrow, as if to say _did I just hear that correctly?_ I feel the same way.

"Wait, hold on. Pregnant? That's not a bad thing, Izzy." I frown, remembering how worried and distressed and just plain panicked I had been finding out I was pregnant. Was that how my best friend was feeling? Is she thinking that, even for one second, my brother won't be thrilled about this?

"I know that!" She snaps from the other end of the receiver. "But how do I know whether or not Jon wants a kid?!" Ah, there it is—that's what's got her so stressed that I can imagine her tugging furiously at her hair and throwing things at the walls.

"Isabelle" —I sigh— "Jon, while he's a complete idiot sometimes, is going to love that baby limitlessly. I hope you know that. My brother's never said anything to me about having kids, but I'm sure he'd like to have them."

"Ah, no, no, no, _no_ —don't say your brother. It makes me want to gag." Isabelle makes a few gagging noises on the other end to get her point across.

I laugh. "Hey, I'm not the one who's been sleeping with him, now am I?"

Jace cringes in my words, murmuring just loudly enough for Isabelle to hear, "I would hope not."

Suffice to say I hang up on her she's laughing so loudly. She calls back a few seconds later, swearing to me that she's calmed down and such, and then she bursts out laughing again, while my husband sits there uselessly, practically petting my stomach.

This is so not how I had intended to start my day this morning when I got out of bed.

* * *

Isabelle picks me up, dragging me out to the mall with her once more—where, quite unsurprisingly, paparazzi were already waiting for me, as if they already know my next move before I do myself.

Currently, we're in Hell. Literal, lacy pink, shameless, _Hell_. Though it's otherwise known as Victoria's Secret, the infamous lingerie store. Which, mind you, I detest. For a multitude of reasons, that I'm not even going to get into right now.

Though as my fingers run over the smooth silky fabric of a lacy nightgown, I have half a mind to reconsider when a sales associate strolls up beside me, smiling so wide it must be painful.

"Oh, that one's my favourite. I have it at home—my boyfriend loves it." She says, proceeding to wink at me. Shameless, I repeat. These people are _shameless_. And what could possibly make the situation worse? Well it one-hundred-and-fifty-percent is your best friend full-out laughing and pointing at you when you turn the same shade of red as the hair on your head.

* * *

Despite Jace's protests, I invite Izzy and Jon over for dinner.

"But we'll have to cook" is my husband's idea of an excuse not to have them over.

To which I argue: "Which we haven't done since we were like, I don't know, twenty."

"That's not a bad thing, Clarissa," is his reply. Honestly, it's a miracle that either of us hasn't become morbidly obese from how often we used to eat out.

"It is, actually," I slip past him and into our kitchen—well, that's what I try to do. It doesn't work. I get stuck wedged between Jace and the wall, to which he smiles and kisses me. "We have things to do," I say against his lips, which while they taste of life-sustaining caffeine and are warm and pleasant against mine, are distracting.

"I care because…?"

"Because I do. You care because I do," I tell him knowingly. I remember once, before we started dating (which, admittedly, is a long time ago), when he tried his hand at painting just for a chance to be near me, to have something akin to a conversation with me, even though it was nowhere near a conversation, and even though he'd never admit to doing such a thing. "Don't you remember the painting class you went to, pretending to care about art only to try and chat me up the whole time?"

His lips pause at the corner of my mouth. He looks up at me, surprise and something unfamiliar burning in those bright eyes I love so much. The fact that part of his gaze is wholly unfamiliar sends a jolt through me. I have to look away from him and bite my lip to push back down the waterworks threatening to make an ordeal of this.

Am I honestly getting upset over my unfamiliarity with one of Jace's many expressions?

Ah—this must be what all those websites said about hormones. So basically I'm just going to feel like I'm an emotional tornado all the time from here on out? Okay, cool. That's not going to be an inconvenience at all.

"Hey," Jace murmurs softly, the tips of his calloused fingers gentle against my skin as he pulls my chin to the right so that I'm once more facing him. "I lost you there."

I nod, swallowing the thick lump in my throat. I might be tempted to think it's my lunch making reappearance, but I've long outgrown the morning sickness. "You did."

"Want to tell me why?"

I shake my head, curls bouncing across my line of sight so it appears that Jace has scarlet streaks across his golden complexion. I feel a giggle bubbling up in my throat, and it spills out before I can force it back down. The blond before me furrows his brows, the left side of his mouth quirking up as well as his fair brow.

"Pregnancy thing?" He asks, brushing back my hair, his long and lean fingers tucking them behind my ear.

"Pregnancy thing." I confirm with a nod of my head, adding: "I think," a moment later.

Jace chuckles and moves away from me, lacing his fingers through mine as he takes a step into the kitchen. Frankly, I'm not even sure what we'll make for dinner. Maybe spaghetti, or lasagna. We're having something Italian, definitely.

* * *

An hour later my hair is sopping and my clothes are clinging to my skin. Jace, who for whatever reason has it stuck in his head that he fared better than me, is grinning a breathtaking ear-to-ear grin that threatens to split his skin if it gets even fractionally wider.

I glare at him as I wring my hair out over the sink. "You _had_ to spray me with water?"

"You were asking for it," Jace retorts as if he's innocent in this whole ordeal. Oh, that boy has another thing coming. "You were teasing me."

"And so were you," I tell him matter-of-factly, wiping away water droplets from my face with the tea towel that previously had been hung on the oven door.

Jace scoffs. "You say that as if you actually did any damage."

I smirk at him. "Look in the mirror," I say simply. Complying, Jace disappears from the kitchen momentarily as I perch myself atop the bench. How I know he's seen the mess I made upon his skin is the rapid patter of his feet against the hardwood, and the smoldering look burning brightly in his aureate eyes when he pauses a few feet from me. "Told you," I say to his wide-eyed expression.

"You—," my husband breathes, his hands coming to rest upon my thighs. The heat of his hands seems to burn through my leggings and shoot outwards, warming the rest of me. "Are a force to be reckoned with, Clary Herondale."

"You say that as if you didn't already know," I kiss his nose and hop down from where I sit on the counter, wary of my stomach. "Now come on—we've got to get cleaned up before Izzy and Jon get here."

Jace groans and runs a hand through his locks. I think it's more out of habit than anything else, though. He mutters something under his breath that has me smiling faintly as I head for the stairs.

* * *

My brother cannot stop smiling, even when he unhooks his arm from around Isabelle's waist and tugs off his windbreaker to reveal a University of Phoenix sweatshirt. Isabelle looks dazzling as usual in a pair of white skinny jeans, black heeled boots, black crop top, and checkered black and white jacket that's just a tad bit big on her. In comparison, it makes my new dress—a loose-fitting turquoise colour with lace sleeves—look quite bland.

When I head into the kitchen to grab the lasagna and bread from the oven, I pull her along with me. I'm sure the question I've been dying to ask her since the moment she arrived will burn straight through my tongue if I don't get it out.

"Did you tell him?" I ask eagerly. Perhaps that's the reason behind Jon's smile.

"Tell who what? You'll have to more specific, Clare; I tell a lot of people a lot of things." She replies from where she's rooting around in our wine fridge—an addition of Izzy's when we originally bought the house.

"Did you tell Jon about the…you know…the _thing_." I do my best to keep my reply vague, having no doubt that both my husband and brother are eavesdropping as an excuse not to have to endure the small talk that always ends badly.

"What thing?" She smiles, turning around with a bottle of expensive-looking white wine grasped tightly in her hand.

"The—oh, never mind. You're just being difficult."

"If I wasn't difficult I wouldn't be Izzy." She tells me, flitting past me. Internally, I groan: tonight is not going to go how I wanted. At all.

* * *

Steam rises off the lasagna situated in the center of the table, curling into each other until they're no longer visible.

Jace clears his throat uncomfortably.

Jon scratches the back of his neck awkwardly.

Isabelle holds up the bottle of wine she snatched from our kitchen. "Who wants wine?" She grins, shaking the bottle a little.

"I'd prefer scotch," Jace says, eliciting a light punch in the arm from me. We share a look for a few beats before he holds his wine glass in Isabelle's direction. "I'll have some," he grumbles. While I know for a fact he could down the entire bottle if he truly wanted, he's always stayed away from wine and I've never been able to figure out why.

"Jon?" Izzy arches a brow at him, shaking the now-open bottle.

He shakes his head. "I have to drive."

"More for me," Isabelle grins at him. I watch the bubbling liquid pour into her glass until it's half full. "To my niece and nephew, sure to win the genetic lottery," she gives me a pointed look with the glass a mere few millimetres from her red velvet-painted lips. I roll my eyes, though Jace and Jon both laugh.

"Being related to me, how could they not be drop dead gorgeous?" My brother pretends to flip his too-short ice-white hair. I laugh and Jace glowers.

"If anything, they'll be lucky not to look like you," Jace tells Jon. Jon narrows his eyes menacingly at the rock star sitting across from me.

"Hey!" I smack Jace's toned arm. "Need I remind you that Jon and I not only share the same DNA, but similar features?"

"I said if they look like _him_ they'll be hideous—if they look like _you_ , on the other hand, they'll be absolutely beautiful. Just like—"

"Izzy—what are you _doing_?!— _stop_!" I know I cut off Jace, but right now it doesn't register. Izzy freezes with the wine glass at her lips, her eyes going wide as I'm sure mine are.

"What? What's wrong?" Jon demands, his eyes roaming Izzy for damage as she spits out her mouthful of white wine. His eyes don't linger on her stomach, and that's when I know.

Isabelle hasn't told him. She's scared, absolutely terrified of telling him.

The alcohol comes out of my best friend's mouth like mist; it sparkles as it catches the light, some rivulets dribbling down the black-haired woman's chin. Isabelle wipes the back of her hand across her chin, setting down her glass quietly and carefully at the same time Jace brushes a few drops of wine off his shoulder.

"Thanks for that," Jace says dryly.

"I-Isabelle?" Jon's eyes are wide and questioning. He looks as curious as he does scared. He knows something's up, and even as his hand slides across the table to cover Izzy's, he can't feign cool, calm and collected.

Isabelle retracts her hand, resting it in her lap, lowering her dark eyes, her even darker lashes casting faint shadows on her under eyes. "I'm pregnant," she murmurs softly.

"Could you repeat that?" Jon asks cautiously, pulling his hand back, swiping a few pieces of white hair away from his face impatiently.

"Pregnant" —Izzy's voices raises a few octaves, her tone wavering faintly. A smile stretches her lips taut. It's the kind of smile that makes it seem like she's only a few measly seconds away from a total breakdown— "I'm pregnant."

* * *

Everybody seems to be holding their breath. I've come up with and thought through several different reactions that I can, reasonably—and not so reasonably—see coming from my brother.

Six out of those seven are not good, and I don't know why. It's not like my brother is a world famous, ridiculously sought-after rock star with more family issues than Vogue could ever wish to publish.

So why am I expecting him to react so badly?

Suddenly, Jon's face breaks out in the most blinding smile and he's holding Izzy tightly.

"I'm going to be a _dad_! We're naming him Jonathan Junior!" Jon says, more excited, murmured gibberish following afterwards.

"We are _not_ naming our baby after you," Isabelle says sternly, her right hand going to her jutted-out hip while the other goes to rest rather protectively over her non-existent baby bump. I'm not even sure she's aware she's doing it.

Jace chuckles from where he sits across from me. When he reaches his hand across the table to touch mine that's sitting idly by my untouched utensils, I notice something out of place yet faintly familiar all at once.

Light glitters glaringly off of the gold band adorning his left ring finger, and I swear on my career that my heart sinks into the pit of my swollen stomach and jumps up my throat simultaneously.

I shouldn't feel this way; I should not feel wary of that gold ring, of that band of his oath to love me endlessly. Somewhere in the back of my mind, our vows echo around my seemingly empty skull. And I wonder, am I getting attached all over again only to have him torn away from me not so long later?

Amidst the happiness and contentedness that seems to ooze from everyone in the room, I can't help but hear the lonely creaking of the staircase after a long day at the studio. I can't help but envision the blearily white walls staring back at me. I can't help but feel the loneliness creep up on me like a predator might creep up upon its prey.

I can't help how the loneliness seems to seep into me—into my bloodstream, my bones, and my brain. Until it feels like I'm right back where I started in November.

* * *

 **Okay, so next chapter is going to be fun. I think. That is if I can kind of speed up the timeline. A lot is going to happen within a little span of time in the story.**

 **Onto the reviews.**

 **xtheMorningStarx: I'll prepare your tombstone. This couple is literally a ticking time bomb. Sorry 'bout that.**

 **Mentirosas: Oh thank you! I am reading Hush, Hush, and I'm on Finale and I'm putting off finishing it because I don't want it to be over. And no, I have not read that series but I'll have to check it out. Thanks for the recommendation!**

 **BrunetteAngel12: Quite honestly, I was debating making Clary a raging hormonal pregnant woman to Simon. I love pregnant Clary when she's in the zone too. She's awesome. Isabelle is like Tumblr incarnate. She's funny, and stunning, with gorgeous kids, and a uber hot boyfriend. I don't think it gets any better than that. Maureen is actually going to be a really nice person, in future chapters, believe it or not. S** **he never intended to be a home wrecker and blah blah blah. You'll see. I want the pictures too, believe me. Oh, you so won't like what I have up my sleeve.**

 **Yumna: It was great to connect with you! I apologize for lack of communication, but I've been busy and as I said I kind of smashed my phone so. Clary never knew because she never bothered to look, and plus she was on bedrest after almost miscarrying.**

 **Ads S: I USED IT I USED IT. YESSSSS. OKAY I LIED THE ANGSTY THINGS ARE COMING SOON THOUGH. THIS ISN'T THAT ANGSTY. I'm glad you forgive me. EVEN IF IT IS ONLY SORTA. BUT LISTEN OKAY I'M MAKING TWO PREQUELS. ONE OF WHEN THEY'RE IN HIGH SCHOOL AND DON'T LIKE EACH OTHER AND THE OTHER ONE LIKE AROUND THE TIME THEY GET MARRIED. OKAY AM I FORGIVEN?**

 **oesteffel: This story is nowhere near it's end, don't worry. Simon is 26, like Clary, Izzy, and Jace, Maureen is about 23-24, and Jon is roughly 28. I can't tell you whether or not Clary and Si's friendship will ever really recover. I guess we'll find out.**

 **Janna: Patch is honestly creepy in the first book, but so hot. Legit it is probably my favourite series right now. I'm putting off finishing Finale because I don't want it to end. And I kinda ship Maureen and Simon too.**

 **livinginsilence: I enjoy writing angst, I don't know why. Honestly, I find it easier to write for whatever reason. Maybe I'm just weird. Yeah I'm just weird.**

* * *

 **OKAY GO! TELL ME IN YOUR REVIEW WHAT YOU THINK I'M GOING TO THROW AT YOU NEXT.**


	18. Returns And Revivals

**Wowee. Would you look at that, a new chapter.**

 **Anyways (and more importantly), a lot of people didn't understand why in last chapter clary was wary of Jace's wedding ring, and the amazing, one and only, Ads S, phrased perfectly in her review what I was trying to say: "** _I hate myself for saying this but I don't think Clary should forgive Simon. Not just bc of the whole cheating thing on a physical level; but look at it two dimensionally. Simon has been best friends with Clary since the beginning. And Simon and Izzy were, in Clary's mind, the perfect couple. Out of everyone she knows (except her family) Simon is the last person who Clary expects to hurt her. Which makes his betrayal all the more damning. Bc (and Ik you haven't exactly addressed this so DISCLAIMER: THESE ARE THE RAMBLINGS OF A FANGIRL WITH WAAAYY TOO MUCH TIME ON HER HANDS) if Simon, someone who she's known since the diaper days can cheat on his wife, the woman he's pined over for years- some part of Clary; one she probably doesn't even know is there: is silently waiting for Jace to do the same._

 _And (again: ramblings) that is kinda what I think makes her so upset when she sees the wedding ring on Jace's finger. Somehow, the absence of a marriage and an official binding makes Jon and Izzy's relationship much simpler. And I think that after Simon cheated on Izzy; Clary is silently holding her breath for her marriage to tumble the same way. And that scares her. And can you really blame her? I mean look at the past few months(and by months I mean chapters) Clary is finallllyyyy getting HER Jace back; the one she fell in love with. And now she's even more infinitely scared that she'll lose him._ **"**

 **And, okay, I know that was also about clary forgiving Simon completely for what he did to Izzy, but I still found it really relevant. So for those of you who might not have completely gotten that whole thing in the last chapter (or the whole last chapter in it's entirety, because let's face facts: my writing is all over the place) I thought this might help you understand what I was trying to convey without having to flat out say it. You know?**

 **Whatever, I think you'll enjoy this chapter, I liked writing it.**

 **Aurevoir.**

* * *

It feels as though I haven't been to the studio in ages, and I can't stand it. No more shall I allow the fetuses growing inside of me to keep me home when there's no need. Seriously, what am I going to do at the studio that'll disturb the twins? Accidentally stab myself with a paintbrush? Doubtful.

I woke up early this morning and could not, for the life of me, fall back asleep, no matter how I twisted in Jace's embrace. And I cannot describe to you the effort it took on my part—the part of a six-months-pregnant woman who is already tiny and not as muscular as it is—to remove Jace's arms from around me, to untwine his legs from mine.

But standing in my sanctuary, in the center of a room filled with all the things I love, the effort was most definitely worth it. I snatch up a paint brush from where I had set a bundle of them to dry the last time I was here, running my fingers back and forth across the smooth but worn, stained bristles of the brush.

My calluses have faded into faintly rough patches of skin on my hands, and I don't like it. They were proof of the time and effort I put into my work and not having them makes me feel like I haven't been putting the effort in. Sure, I've been making money, selling a few dozen of the paintings in my enormous stockpile, but—it just isn't the same.

* * *

I delve into my work, grabbing up a canvas and setting myself up in front of the expansive white blankness before me, a variety of colours on my palette and dozens of different brush choices. So I would like to think that it's safe to say I'm in my zone before Simon bursts in. Well, he doesn't really burst. More like he just walks in with a paper coffee cup in hand, his briefcase in the other.

He gazes at my painting in surprise. "You're painting."

"I am," I say, biting at my chapped lower lip. My hands are thoroughly coated in a multitude of different colours, and I just know I'll have the toughest time getting out the paint that's now caked under my nails. It makes me smile.

"So, um," Simon seems to reach blindly for the words stuck between us, so many words that are unsaid. "What's new?" He gives a nervous laugh, settling himself on the leather sofa a few feet away from my easel.

I lift one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "I don't know, I mean I'm just holding my breath, waiting for Jace Herondale the rock star to resurface and for my Jace to be gone." I don't mean to say it, but it comes out anyways. Simon and I have been friends longer than I count on two hands, and it seems my brain has not yet received the message that the connection, the trust between us, has been breached. Because, if I'm honest with myself, how can I trust someone who cheated on the supposed love of their life after pining after them for so many years? In my eyes, I suppose they were always the ideal couple; the ideal family. They had what I wanted and more often than not I found myself sulking jealously when they were around together. It just hadn't seemed fair that they could have that relationship so easily; that could have each other so easily.

And after all Jace and I had already been through with each other? You might think life would cut us a break and just let us be for a little while. Let us have that ideal marriage that all young couples hope for, strive for.

"Clare," Simon places an unsure hand on my shoulder blade. I peer over my shoulder at him. His brown hair is shaggy, his glasses still just the slightest bit crooked upon his nose, and his coffee-brown eyes the same. "He loves you, isn't that what matters?"

I bite my tongue. _It sure didn't seem to matter that you loved Izzy and that she loved you when you slept with your client_. The words sting like acid on my tongue. Some evil part of me that wants to relish in the pain and hurt of things begs me to say the words.

"Sometimes love just isn't enough, Si," I say instead. He nods, tight-lipped.

"What about the babies?"

"What about them?"

"Don't you want to try, for them?" Simon's tone is curious. He sounds genuine enough as he props his elbows on his legs, head held up by his hands.

"Of course I want to try. I love him more than I could tell you, but what do I do when and if rock star Jace decides to make reappearance?" I don't want to get into this, I don't even want to think of this, let alone think that it could become a very real possibility with Jace heading back to the studio again to record some new songs for the next album. The album isn't supposed to come out until next year but that's to going to stop Jace's management from plowing ahead. I can only hope the newer staff won't be anything like Hodge. "And I've been trying, Si, I'm just—I feel like I'm just lying in wait for the day that I lose Jace and the other one comes back out again and we go back to fighting and ignoring each other."

Simon looks thoughtful as he takes a sip from his surely now-cold coffee. "Maybe he's changing, Clary. You never know—he's done it before."

Sure, the last time Jace changed it was for the better, but will it be for the better this time?

* * *

Sometime during the day, just a little after Simon left to go and do his own thing down at the courthouse, I realize something that makes the paintbrush fall from my hand in shock and clatter to the floor, a splotch of bright orange marring the hardwood beneath my feet and the tips of my boots.

Our anniversary is coming up.

The past few years Jace and I haven't done anything significant, maybe spent the evening together and ate together if he wasn't busy, or I wasn't avoiding him because of a fight. But this year—

This year is going to be different; I am going to make sure.

* * *

 ** _~Isabelle~_**

I tap the end of my pink-inked pen against the corner of my mouth. A notebook lies on the table before me, my laptop sat out just a little ways away, and I must have a million different tabs open. At the top of the blank page is written: _Clary's Baby Shower_ in the best handwriting I could manage.

For once in my life, I have no idea what to do when it comes to this kind of thing. It's like the ideas I had stored away in my mind were chalk on pavement and someone has taken a hose to my ideas, leaving nothing but a slowly drying slate of black asphalt with little to no remnants of the brightly-coloured chalk that was there previously.

Then again, Simon had typically always been by my side as I planned these things. He never really offered much to the whole thing, but his funny comments made it easier, and his realism about the ridiculous ideas I wanted to do that would never work had always helped me steer clear of things like glitter canons.

Now don't get me wrong; I don't miss him as my husband, I don't miss his awkward embrace. I miss his friendship. That I am willing to admit, even if the thought of him brings with it the not-so-ancient emotions of hurt and pain and that odd feeling in my chest, sprouting outwards through my body like the roots of an invasive plant.

A knock at the door is what drags me from my unpleasant thoughts. I pad, barefoot, to the door to answer it. It better not be some girl scout selling cookies because I can't resist, and I haven't been to the gym in a while—I'm not sure how much more I can eat before my jeans won't fit. Then again, I _am_ pregnant. I push the thought away urgently, and it leaves only bitterness behind—bitterness at me for wanting to push away the thought of my unborn child.

As a child, even in high school, I fantasized about getting married and living happily ever after, but I never imagined myself having kids. I don't know why. Maybe it's because of how my own family grew apart when I was barely a teenager, everyone always too busy for each other, never caring, only to be completely torn apart when my brother abandoned us.

I pull open the door, having undone the lock.

I can't cover my surprise no matter how hard I try because, well, this just is not something that happens every day.

Standing with impeccable posture and a dark knit sweater with my little Maxie bouncing on the heels of his feet excitedly in front of her legs, is Maryse Lightwood; my mother.

I only come alive when Max attacks my legs, squeezing them tightly together with his lanky, stick-thin arms. I crouch down, coercing him to release my legs of his hold. Though the brown-haired little boy in front of me gladly hugs me properly as I wrap my arms around him. I stroke my hand down back, up and back down again.

His little body shakes within my hold, and I feel a wet spot begin to form on the shoulder of my blouse. He's crying. My baby is crying.

And it almost makes me cry, tears burning at the backs of my eyes. The only thing holding them back is the knowledge somewhere in the back of my mind that Maryse is still standing cold and regally only a measly few feet in front of me.

I want her gone and I want her gone now.

I stand up, hoisting Max onto my hip. He holds on for dear life, head on my shoulder and his arms around my waist, as if afraid I'll send him away again—and this time he won't come back. As if I could ever—

"Isabelle," Maryse nods in greeting.

"Maryse." It's hard to keep the sneer from my voice, hard to keep in the venom coming up my throat and threatening to choke me if I don't get it out of my system.

She looks about to reprimand me when she seems to remember: I'm an adult, I can make my own decisions, and she's the one who tore the last seam holding our family together.

"How've you been?"

"Fine, and a month or so pregnant. What about you?"

She ignores my last question. Good, I don't care how's she's been. " _Pregnant_?" Her outburst, while I expected it, still makes me flinch. " _Isabelle Sophia_ —"

I tune her out, listening to Max as he whispers softly, curiously in my ear; "What does _pre-gain-it_ mean, Mommy?" His tone his soft and very nearly makes me forget that that cold woman is still here.

I laugh softly, brushing a few stray, too-long curls from his small face. "Pregnant, baby. And we'll talk when grandma leaves, all right?" He nods.

" _Isabelle Sophia Lightwood, are you even listening to me_ —?!" Maryse demands, her hands fisted at her side. Her skin, already so pale and fair like that of a Snow Queen, seems to get even whiter.

"It's Isabelle Sophia _Fairchild_ , actually," I tell her coolly, my vicious stare slicing head-on into her heavily heated glare.

" _Fairchild_?" She sputters angrily. "You're married _again_?"

"Engaged, actually."

"Where's your ring, in that case?" The woman, supposedly my mother, looks smug, her arms crossed over her chest, a pink colour still smoldering at the tops of her cheekbones.

I hadn't thought she would ask that. I did not think this through thoroughly enough. "Oh, upstairs—it's gorgeous, really; Jon must have spent a _fortune_ on it. You'll have to see it some other time; Max is looking a little tired." To my utter relief, Max nuzzles his head further into my shoulder, his eyes fluttering as if trying to stay open just a moment longer.

Maryse opens her mouth as if to protest, but closes it firmly, her lips a thin, angry line across her face so similar to my own. "Another time," she agrees and spins on her heeled foot.

I close the door quietly, walking silently towards Jon and I's bedroom. I don't think he'll mind if Max sleeps in there. I sit him on the bed and his little hands manage to rapidly snatch up a pillow; he hugs it to his body.

I crouch down in front of him, my hands braced on either of his stick-like legs. He has always seemed a little gangly for a nearly five-year-old, but I'm willing to bet that was the doing of Simon's genetics and a little of Alec's that, while _in_ my DNA, I did not inherit.

"So Mommy's pregnant," I tell Max holding his questioning gaze. "And that means that you're going to have a little brother or sister soon."

His eyes widen. "Really?" His little fingers push his glasses back up his nose. "Do you think I could have a sister?"

I giggle at that. He might just be too adorable for his own good. "We'll see, Maxie, we'll see." I ruffle his already-messy hair. "Now why don't you get some sleep, and we can talk more in the morning? It's already dark outside."

Max complies slightly grudgingly, crawling up the bed and under the blankets, his little head of messy hair resting on the pillow. I crawl up beside him, pulling my little boy into my arms; I've been for too long without him. I don't think I could let him go again, I think as his breathing evens out, soft snores beginning to echo softly through the room. I don't know if I could stand letting him go again.

* * *

 ** _~Clary~_**

A few lights bleed out through the upper windows of the house. I wonder if Jace is asleep yet and left the lights on lie he so often does. You'd think that for someone who all but lives under the spotlight, he might get tired of it.

"Jace?" I call out, tugging off my jacket and hanging it over my arm. A few sharp kicks near my ribs have me breathing in something like a hiss. "I'm home." That, too, comes out like a hiss.

When I reach the top of the staircase, Jace is leaning against the doorframe to our bedroom. "It's about time; I've been lonely." He sticks out his bottom lip, feigning an adorably cute pout.

"I had some work to finish up at the studio," I say, stepping up on my tippy-toes to press a chaste kiss to his cheek as I brush by him and into the bedroom where I toss my jacket by the closet door. I'm sure Jace's inner neat-freak is irked at the action.

I push my hands through my tangled hair, sighing when they get too stuck for me to keep going. I lay down on the bed, flat on my back because it isn't as if I can sleep on my stomach. I expect Jace to plop down next to me, but instead he lies on his side, head propped up on his closed fist.

Moonlight slices through the window and shines off his silky blond strands of hair, making him appear to glow like some sort of guardian angel or another. Though when his lips are suddenly and surprisingly are pressed just below my ear, moving onto my jaw line, with his eyes glowing devilishly, I think more of a fallen angel cast out of heaven than a guardian angel.

With his hands braced on either side of my head, a few of his pianist's fingers tangled in my knotted curls, he kisses me hard.

"Jace," I say against his lips.

"Mhmm?"

"What're you—is there a particular reason that your face is attached to mine?"

"Because I love you, and I had a long day of meetings and producers and more idiots who have no clue what they're doing and I'd like to kiss my wife. Is that so much to ask?" He replies.

"No," I grin softly at his words. "I suppose not."

"So would you like to begin where we left off?" Jace asks temptingly, waggling his fair eyebrows, his eyes shining darkly.

"Yeah—yeah, let's do that." And he kisses me.

* * *

 **DISCALIMER: JON AND IZZY ARE NOT ACTUALYL ENGAGED, SHE JUST SAID THAT TO GET HER NASTY WITHC MOTHER OFF HER BACK ABOUT BEING PREGNANT AGAIN.**

 **Also, I loved the way Isabelle out-ed her pregnancy to Maryse. I thought it up and went "that is so Isabelle" and I just had to do it, so I hope you all liked it.**

 **Onto les reviews.**

 **xTheMorningStarx: I hope the thing at the beginning of the chapter kind of clarified the whole ring thing? Tell me if it didn't and I'll do my best to help you. I'm hoping things get better from here on out, but my imagination is kind of twisted and my brain likes to decide "oh, let's do this" and yeah. But yes, Clary has always worn her wedding ring except for when she dramatically tosses it to the ground or slams it on tables.**

 **Yumna: Yeah, I'm warning about the angst in later chapters, because things right now in the story are pretty light, and everything is running fairly smoothly (for Clace, at least). Oh, yes, I so agree with you about Clary and Jace not addressing a lot of the issues they have in their marriage, but they're both too stubborn to admit anything to the other, and it's going to come back to bite them, I assure you.**

 **BrunetteAngel12: Oh my god, Pregnant Izzy is even better than Pregnant Clary. So in the second book of this, like when they're like 19/20/21-ish, (I'm not entirely sure yet) it'll go on for a long enough span of time that you'll get to see Izzy pregnant with Max at 22. Honestly it's going to be great. You picked it up? You're good. I was wondering if the foreshadowing might be a little too obvious, but it seems you're the only one that guessed it. So congrats :))**

 **Allieanna: Yeah, that's what I was trying to convey last chapter. If I was her I'd be worried constantly that rock star Jace is going to slip back out for good.**

 **Janna: I am so going to check out Dimily. Never heard of it, sounds interesting, though. Trust me, you'll see some...drama, for lack of a better word, go down before the twins are born, and even after the twins are born. Oh my god, I'm just imagining Jizzy's kid with the twins and it's gonna be freakin' amazing.**

 **fanfic-addict17: I hope there as enough Jizzy in there for you (even if Jon himself was not present, because Izzy's got a lot to explain to Jon when Maryse comes a knocking again). It seems all anyone wants is for Clace to be happy, though I will promise no such thing. :))**

* * *

 **THE FIRST CHAPTER OF THE HIGHSCHOOL-AGE PREQUEL WHEN CLACE GETS TOGETHER AND SIZZY IS GONIG TO BE UP SOON. I HAVE ABOUT A THOUSAND OR SO MORE WORDS LEFT TO WRITE AND THEN WE'RE GOOD TO GO. GET EXCITED.**


	19. Any Day

**Ooooh, I updated. I think you'll like this one. Things are starting to pick up again, mainly because I figured out how to skip some unnecessary time without making it seem like there's huge bits missing (I mean, there are things missing that'll come up soon, but).**

 **Anyways, the first chapter of one of prologue stories should be up tomorrow. It's going to be a first chapter/prologue to when they were in high school and still kind of hated each other. You know? I think it's going to be good, but I'll let you all be the judge of that.**

 **And I'm out of things to say.**

* * *

New York seems to come alive along with the flowers as May begins. The trees are no longer skeletal and bare, little buds of green and white blossoming on them, the grass no longer drowning in water and muddy with patches of yellow and brown and black from where people tried to burn it dry. Everything is coming alive around me, and I haven't stopped painting it since it began.

Earlier today Isabelle and I sat down, planning out the next Gala. My stock pile is growing out of control and Isabelle keeps telling me people would pay thousands upon millions of dollars for my art—quite honestly, I feel like I should be paying them to take my art. It's not like my art is anything special, there are hundreds of better, more deserving artist out there. Every time I hold a Gala, I feel like people are only there because _he_ might be; because I'm _his_ wife.

But with Simon and Izzy there, I don't mind it all that much—the warm lights pressing down from above, the people, the typical, stupid dresses, the clinking of champagne flutes and stuck-up laughter. Let's just hope that he'll show if I invite him (which I have, he's been my best friend for, like, two decades).

The next Gala will be in September, sometime after the twins are born. And if Isabelle's many, many calculations are correct, they should be born sometimes in early August. I don't think I'm going to tell Jace, because though he appears okay with the idea of becoming a father, I can tell he's nervous.

When they're born, he'll be fine. I know it. Underneath that coldness towards the subject of his family, that hard façade of stone he more often than not puts up between us, I know he'll love these babies as much as I already do. Underneath all of those things he likes to pretend he is to the world, he's Jace, the boy who suffered through things I can't even imagine going through, the boy who went red and stuttered the first time he told me he loved me, the boy who became the man I love today.

I have no doubt that he will be an amazing dad. Let's just hope that we can agree on some names before the babies are actually born.

* * *

The temperature has climbed up about twenty degrees, and continues to climb as I stare at my phone screen. Izzy stopped by, parking her black SUV across the end of our driveway, leaving no way for either me or Jace to get free—which can mean only one thing, she's planning something.

Speaking of the devil—Isabelle plops down beside me in the grass which Jace is currently mowing. "It's so hot," she whines, dragging out the last syllable the word as she fans herself, pushing back a few pieces of dark hair from her face.

"Yeah"—I squint at her—"that's what happens in summer, Iz."

"It's spring," she corrects, tipping her head back to bask in the shade. Not that there is a whole lot of it in our backyard. We should really plant some trees. "If it was summer I'd be broiling at the beach instead of sitting here watching your broody-looking husband mow the lawn."

"He's not broody-looking—oh, wait, yes he is."

"Told you."

"Oh, shut up."

* * *

Somehow, Isabelle had managed to talk Jace into thinking that going swimming was a good idea. I was not so easily persuaded, however, which simply coerced her to drag me there (wherever there is) behind herself and Jace.

And now, standing in the bathroom of an unfamiliar house (more like palace), I stare back unblinkingly at my reflection. It's not that I look bad, but—I've just never seen myself so…big. I've always been, well, a stick for lack of a better word. Only in senior year did I develop some curves and even those were nothing compared to my best friend's willowy form, or even my mother's somewhat curvy form.

But I'm nearly positive that Jace didn't marry me for my looks. So I'm not too concerned about it—though I can't help but grace the pads of my fingers across my stomach which protrudes like a globe. My skin is stretched taut, blue veins prominent against it. I nearly jump and bump my hip on the edge of the glass sink when one of the twins kicks.

That's when it sinks in again—I'm going to be a _mom_. How utterly, totally _incredible_ is that? Maybe they'll have Jace's aureate eyes, or my fair, freckle-spattered skin. Quite honestly, they could inherit whatever features from either of us and I won't care.

"Clare, you almost done?" Isabelle twists the doorknob, pushing open the white-painted door. I could have been naked and I don't think she would have blinked, frankly.

"I guess," I shrug, staring back at my reflection once more. I'm wearing a plain black bikini, nothing special, a white bathing suit cover resting upon my shoulders, the fringe hanging from the bottom hem of it tickling my upper thighs.

Isabelle rolls her eyes at me, crossing her somewhat toned arms over her fairly prominent chest. "Vanity is a sin, Clary. And besides, you look fine."

"Don't lecture me about sins, Miss Lightwood." I tell her with a pointed look.

Giving a dismissive hand wave in my general direction, she gestures towards where the pool must be. "The pool awaits, and I await the long-awaited summer sun."

"It isn't summer; it's spring."

"Honestly, as long as the snow and rain is over with, I don't care what season it is."

I trail a little behind Isabelle to the pool, not paying much mind to the interior of the house as we pass through. According to Izzy's ramblings, the house belongs to one of Jace's band members, who, conveniently, are out of town. It seems that Jace can get just about anyone to just about anything he wants if he turns on the charm, which it appears Jace did. Because this place, while large, is not overly lavish, but still the kind of place you wouldn't agree to let your college buddy throw a rager.

And, well, Jace can play the part of a wild frat boy as well as he can play the part of an arrogant, egotistical, spoiled rock star. Which is pretty damn well, if it was hard to tell.

Though I'm pretty sure you could tell from a mile away. Probably even more than a mile.

Jace wolf whistles at me as I step onto the pool deck, and I can't help but laugh and shake my head. I don't look the way I did a few months ago, and while I have no issues about that, it took me a long time to get comfortable in that body, and this one feels just as awkward as my twelve-year-old one did, when I was all gangly limbs, unbelievably frizzy hair and freckles.

"At least you're not a moody pregnant woman," Jon remarks as he stretches his ashen arms up over his head, yawning loudly. "I don't think I would've been able to handle you ten times moodier than you already are—oh. Wait…that's your husband."

A heated glare from those aureate eyes at my brother has me stepping in between the two _equally_ moody men, playing mediator.

"Okay. Swimming!" Isabelle claps her hands together loudly, drawing Jon's attention away from glaring back at Jace. He walks up to her, swinging his arm around her waist and pressing a short kiss to her cheek, smiling fondly at her profile afterwards. Is that how Jace and I look when we think no one is looking?

Jace hums as he stands in front of me, staring upwards contemplatively as he rolls his shoulders absently. "You want to?" He asks finally.

I roll my eyes at him. "You know I can't swim—and you just want to show off your six-pack."

"Eight-pack and why the hell _can't_ you go swimming?" Jace asks firmly, as if he doesn't see my swollen stomach.

"Um, Jace, I'm not sure how well I would fare with this," I gesture downwards at my belly.

He stares for a moment, silent, and I wonder what he could possibly say to contradict me. "I don't think water is going to do any harm." He says finally. If I'm honest with myself, I expected him to be stumped and turn away, though it turns out I'm the one stumped. No, not only stumped—surprised.

 _What were you expecting him to say?_

Not that. Certainly not that.

* * *

I've given myself a headache, tying to come up with a reason as to why I thought Jace would just reject my pregnancy as if it weren't real and tangible. Maybe I'm just looking for something that's not really there, maybe I'm reading too into things.

I tend to do that.

Moving on—I can't fathom which part of me decided it was a good idea to attempt to tan. I don't tan, I burn. I'm too utterly porcelain for this, okay?

And now, staring down at my skin, red as if lit with a blood blush that hurts a little to the touch, I curse my earlier stupidity. Of course, then there are people like Isabelle and Jace; people who tan effortlessly, not a trace of redness upon them.

Seriously.

Izzy seems to radiate an alabaster glow, her skin an unfair, light shade of gold. Meanwhile, my husband, whose ego is more than likely already the size of the moon, stares approvingly at his reflection in one of the house's windows, at his biceps and toned stomach, at his skin, an even deeper, richer shade of gold than it had been a few hours before.

And here I am, all white and red and black like an out-of-breath penguin or something, scowling down at my legs, still as stick-like and thin and freckly as they were ten years ago. The only difference being that they're a little redder.

At least Jon is suffering along with me, his typically pale cheeks painted a painful pink and red colour as he stares down at his toes, also scowling (I smile a little at this, albeit smugly).

When Jace wraps his arms around me from behind, I hiss a little at the sting the contact brings.

"Ouch—never had that reaction from a woman before." He says, feigning hurt as I turn my head to look at him, a few strands of my hair bright against his complexion.

"Probably because all the women that want anything to do with you are screaming, weeping fans willing to buy a Kleenex you blew your nose into off EBay." I retort, feeling the chuckle reverberating deep in his chest as he chastely presses his lips to the reddened skin of my cheek.

"So you're a screaming, weeping fan that's willing to by my used tissues off of EBay?"

I give him a funny look. "What?"

"You said all women who want anything to do with me are like that, and, well—you're married to me, Missy." He nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck, the faint stubble from not having shaven in a few days scratches against my skin.

"Biggest mistake of my life," I joke, tipping my head back to meet his lips that now hover above mine.

"You're asking for trouble, Clarissa," he tells me, his voice deeper than before—huskier.

"Am I, now?" I tease, unable to help the smile spreading across my face, my lips stretched taut with the action.

"Get a room!" Isabelle shouts, and my head snaps up to find her smiling a faintly amused smile, and my brother scowling so deeply I fear that his face might stay that way—that'll be his problem, though—and his arms crossed across his chest. Pair that with his getting-too-long white hair and bright red cheeks, and he is certainly a sight to behold.

"Don't say that," Jon mutters to Isabelle.

"Why? Afraid they really will?" Izzy taunts teasingly as she folds up her now-wet towel, hanging it over the back of one of the many lawn chairs, her dark hair hanging in slightly curled sections down her back.

He mutters something back to her, spinning on his heel and heading for the back door.

* * *

Even as I lay next to Jace in bed, my mind is elsewhere…wondering still why my brother is upset with Jace or me. Knowing him it could be either of us for stupid reasons, but, again, knowing him, it's probably something to do with the sleepy, slightly dazed rock star beside me.

I make a mental note to talk to him about it, but if he's upset, well…I'll have to corner him, confront him.

It doesn't matter. I'll do what I need to do to get it out of Jon, to understand what his issue is.

And despite my burning determination and whirling, ever-going mind, I let sleep sink it's claws into me and drag me away into darkness as Jace's arm comes to wrap around me, pulling me closer to him though I can't help but notice how his hands, even in sleep, shy away from my swollen stomach.

* * *

 _July 16_ _th_ _, 2016_

 _12:31 p.m._

 _NY Chatter_

Tick tock! It's almost that time. No, the summer has not come and gone while you were dozing. Rather our favourite rock star with a prized jaw line and our spit-fire artist are expecting any day now. And twins, no less!

Rumour has it; our dear Clary Herondale is having her baby shower today, hosted by none other than Jace's publicist, Isabelle Lightwood.

Now, I don't like to speculate, but a little birdy told me that as the due date nears, our Golden Boy grows distant. With more and more shows to be performed, we're left to wonder how on earth Clary is handling the stress, and intense spotlight on the bump under her pretty green dress.

* * *

My heart is slamming against my ribcage, my breath catching in my throat, words dying on my lips as I stare dumbfounded at my gorgeously decorated house. White with accents of gold and silver, and smiling faces.

The back deck of the house is bathed in sunlight, white umbrellas shading spotless glass tables. A white, three-tier cake with gold dusting and silver pearls sits on one of them, on another, a glass pitcher filled with water, another pitcher filled with what I assume to be punch, frosted glasses surrounding the two of them.

"Are you surprised?" Isabelle smiles broadly, hugging me with bone-crushing force, somehow managing to be cautious of the two bumps between us. Her dark hair hangs long and sleek down her back, a bit of it framing her angular face, complimenting her white sundress and fair complexion.

"Damn right she is," Jon grins at me, the tips of his white hair falling into his face and his smiling emerald eyes giving him an impish appearance. "Look at her, she looks stunned—and a little dazed, too. What's wrong, Sissy?"

"Nothing, I just—I just—" I stop talking, feeling the faint sting and heat of tears burning behind my eyes. "I can't believe—thank you, so, so much." I pull everyone to me, Izzy, Jon, Simon, Helen, and my Mom, even though she fights, insisting that she did little. I know it's a lie, and hug her close to me anyways. When we pull away, I stare at Simon, stare at his familiar face that I've known my entire life, at my best friend and feel the tears build again. "You showed," I say through the alligator-tears rolling rapidly down either side of my face. I can no longer bring myself to care about ruining the makeup that took me so long to do, about ruining precariously-done hair.

Simon rubs his hand up and down my back, swaying us slightly. "Of course I showed. How could you ever think, for one second, that I'd miss something like this?"

"I just—because Iz is here, I thought—" I cry onto his shoulder, surely soaking the fabric of his unbelievably soft t-shirt.

"Clary, don't cry," Helen says softly, warmly. "This is supposed to be a happy day; it wasn't supposed to make you sad."

"Helen's right, Clare," my Mom says. "There's no need for tears."

"I'm not sad"—I pull away from Si, wiping away the remnants of my tears with the backs of my hands as he pushes up his glasses—"I'm just really happy, that's all."

"As sweet as this is, and all," Jon begins, my mother sighing and turning to him with her hands on her hips. "Can we get onto the games and stuff?"

" _And stuff_ ," Isabelle mocks, though she's smiling at him, along with the rest of us.

"Yeah," I laugh my voice still a little wobbly from my slight emotional breakdown. "That sounds like a plan."

Isabelle claps her hands excitedly, and says something to Simon in a hushed tone. He heads over to one of the many tables, coming back a moment later, a cup nearly the size of his forearm held in both hands. _Clary_ , it says in Jon's sloppy handwriting.

"Try it," my brother grins at me.

Hesitantly, I take the large cup from Simon's hands, taking a tentative sip from the red straw poking through the lid. I feel my eyes widen at the explosion of flavour in my mouth, laughing happily as I pry my lips from the straw with great effort. "A milkshake?—where did you even _find_ one this big?"

"Please," Izzy says with a sort of scoff. "I'm Isabelle Lightwood," she finishes, tossing her hair over her shoulder as if that's answer enough to my question.

"That's not a viable answer!" I retort, raising my hands in indignation, the milkshake still clasped tightly in my right hand.

"Festivities," Simon interjects. "Let's get to them, shall we?"

* * *

Despite our ages, there's a piñata. And despite the fact that all of us bet on Jon beating the hell out of that poor thing, it surprisingly was Mom who broke it.

"I haven't kept your Dad in line all these years by saying please and thank you," was her only comment after brushing off her dress. If you know someone more awesome than my mom, please let me know.

And what makes it even better? There's a game (honestly, I don't think it's actually a game but when I tried to point that out to Izzy, she argued with me about it, so) where everyone gets to put a girl's name and a boy's name into a frosted glass jar that matches just about every other decoration here.

"If you don't pick my names, there's something seriously wrong with you," my brother says, his face cracking into a grin as he scribbles on the little pieces paper he was given by Isabelle, who told him not to write something dumb and moved along, nearly bumping her growing stomach on Helen's chair.

As much fun as I'm having, laughing and smiling constantly, I can't help but hate that Jace isn't here. I can't help but feel bitter that he isn't home yet. Doesn't he know that I pop any day now? And what the hell would happen if he wasn't here for it? There are things I'm willing to overlook, but that would not be one of them.

I honestly don't think Jon would let him see his children before strangling him until his golden complexion was purple and blue.

"Iz," I begin over the conversation. It's rude, and I know it, but I can't help myself. The words seem to die on everyone's lips as they look over at me, and I squirm under the collective gazes of the four of them. Though, my Mom's gaze is considerably more concerned-looking than my brother's. "When is—when is Jace going to be home?"

The dark-eyed girl blinks. Then blinks again. And again. As if she doesn't understand my question. "I-I—I can have him home tomorrow, if need be, but he…he's supposed to be gone until at least mid-August."

For whatever reason, her reply hits me hard, like a bag of sand has landed directly on my chest. I'm the one who told him to go; that'd I'd be fine without him here.

I thought he was only doing a couple shows around the country. Not five or six month's worth of shows crammed and condensed into three measly months.

"Asshole," Jonathan growls.

"Language, Jonathan Christopher," my mom reprimands, her eyes narrowed slightly at my brother. With her hair pulled up into that bun, and her hands entwined in her lap she looks so much more serious.

"No, he _is_ an asshole, Mom. Don't any of you get it? I _told_ him the baby shower was today _, I told him_ to get the hell home before Clary went into labour without him. Did the fuc—"

" _Jonathan_!" My mother shouts over him, her voice what our dad had always called "scary calm" when we were younger.

Cheeks flushed red and his eyes a little wild, Jon continues: "Did he listen to me?! _No_! He just kept pulling away from her—I watched him do it, while you were so oblivious to it, Clare. I watched him pretend like you weren't pregnant, like he wasn't going to be a father!" At this point, Jonathan is gesturing wildly with his hands, and Isabelle is getting up out of her seat, going to calm him down when he swings his arms up, and dropping them back down to his sides.

"It seems like he turns into more of an ignorant moron every day," Izzy murmurs, wrapping her arms around Jonathan's waist, his chest heaving up and down as he breathes heavily, blowing a few strands of salt-white hair impatiently away from his face.

Helen seems to be shrinking in on herself in her chair. I don't know how she managed to keep a person like Jace in line all this time when she's so meek and sweet herself.

"Love is not meant to be easy, it's meant to be worth it—and, Clary, I think it's time you decide whether or not this is all worth it." My Mom chimes in, her tone ever-calm, and even as the baby shower progresses and we eat nearly the entire cake, open presents and laugh and giggle at the silliest of things, her words reverberate through me, until I find myself once again doubting this marriage. Doubting Jace's supposed eternal love and devotion. Wondering if I could ever find someone like him or better if I up and walked out.

* * *

 **So there it is. Kinda short, but who cares? Probably you guys, but there's certainly a reason I cut it where I did (I was going to cut it about a thousand words less, so).**

 **Cheshire15: Right now, my brain is totally fried and I can't remember what Jace's secret was, but it wasn't mistresses. Jace is many things, but not a cheater.**

 **xTheMorningStarx: Well, I can't promise anything, because I kind of ruined that with this chapter. But, trust me, Jace has reasons for most things he does. The other 90% is just him being impulsive. I mean I hope they end up happy, because I have a whole image in my head that I can't tell you about yet because it's for later in the story.**

 **Debra Williams: YES. 100 TIMES YES. IM EXCITED. OKAY.**

 **BrunetteAngel12: Not gonna lie, I kind of forgot Izzy was pregnant for like half of this. Like I said, my brain is fried. And so is my skin. Because I'm pastier than Edward Cullen. All this worrying and stress is definitely not good for Clary, though I don't think I could bare making her almost have a miscarriage again from the stress. Isabelle is honestly great. Some of them will be adorable and sweet, I can't say anything on behalf of the unborn offspring.**

 **Yumna: Everyone loves Isabelle. It's hard not to. Izzy and Si broke up because he cheated on her. There is always more Clace, good or bad, I don't know yet.**

 **BlackHeron104: That's exactly what I'm doing :)) I have a prologue story of when they were in high school, before they fell in love (so starting around 16, going all the way to 18 or 19, I'm not sure yet) and then the next one (the one before this one) will be when Jace's career is picking up, and Clary is in college and saving for the studio. Each of the stories can be read as stand-alones.**

 **Mentirosas: I love writing that kind of stuff, but I find it kind of hard and I don't know why. Jizzy is seriously one of my newest OTPs.**

 **And finally:**

 **Ads S: YOU DIDN'T REVIEW BUT THAT'S OKAY CAUSE I FINISHED ACOTAR AND NOONONON I STARTED ACOMAF AND NONONONO. I GOTTA GOOO.**


	20. Seven Years

**Aye! I'm back with a chapter I don't want to spoil anything about - you'll have to find out for yourself k - because that would ruin all the fun. Will it end with Clary riding off into the sunset of eternal rainbows and happiness or heartbreak and ruin and destruction because I'm a horrible person? We never know.**

* * *

One day to go, and I still have no idea if he'll actually be home for it or not. I mean, I had this whole big thing planned out, but it just doesn't seem worth the trouble if it turns out he's not coming home.

I internally groan. Amidst my frustrations and slightly derailed train of thought, I rest my hand over my belly, feeling the kicks that vary in strength. Even though I feel like my marriage is on the brink of crashing down around me and trapping me in the rubble, the faintest of smiles spreads.

At least I know I'll always have the kids, they won't up and leave for what's supposed to be a few shows when it's really about six month's worth of shows condensed into the time span of three months.

But you know what, I'm going to go and have a nice relaxing day, a day where thoughts of Jace don't conquer all others. Now all that's left to do is to actually decide _what to do_.

* * *

Somehow, I end up at Simon's new house. He told me he had the day off last night when we were talking. When he answers the door, he looks mildly surprised and I can't help but give a sort of nervous smile and tentative wave of my hand—as if he'll reject my being here.

But it's Simon. I've left wet splotches on his favourite t-shirts and gotten my sticky fingerprints all over his controllers—I think it's a little late for him to reject me…but then there's that sick voice at the back of my head that thrives off of my nerves, my anger, pain, and worry, telling me he'll return my soft smile with a blank look and send me away.

The thought makes the saliva in my mouth thicken and my palms sweat ten times more as I swipe them against the worn fabric of my leggings.

"Hey," Simon smiles widely, a slight pink hue colouring his cheeks. "Come in," he steps aside, allowing a space wide enough for me and the twins to fit through.

When we're both seated on the plush, bouncy leather couch in his beautifully decorated basement, he turns to me, a controller gripped in his left hand. "So how were the—how were the vultures?"

"The paparazzi?" I pull my legs fully onto the couch, awkwardly attempting to pull them to myself so that I can lay my face on them, before quickly giving up, realizing it's more than pointless and dropping my legs back to where they had been previously perched. "They weren't really bad—not like when Jace is home"—I shake my head, clearing it of thoughts of Jace and his stupid self—"If that's what you were wondering. Just a few kind of lounging by the side of the road, I guess hoping to see if a pregnant Clary Herondale is any more overly-emotional than the regular one."

A muscle in Si's jaw feathers a little, and I know he does not love Jace anymore than he was before my pregnancy was even a thought.

"Whatever. Doesn't matter—let's play some video games," I grin at him, albeit a little shyly. When was the last time I was shy around Simon?

"That," Simon leans across the couch, ruffling my hair as I laugh and protest, swatting his hand away, "Sounds like a hell of a good idea."

* * *

It's been hours since I first got to Simon's, abandoning my phone in my bag near the front door, along with the hope that Jace will be home for our anniversary. But I've finally worked up the nerve and pulled my phone out of my bag—and right now, I'm having a staring contest with the thing (Simon glancing my way every now and again, a strange look upon his face). Almost like if I stare at it long enough, it'll ring and Jace's breath-taking smile will light up the screen.

I snort at the mere absurdity of the idea as a shard of light from a streetlight leaks through the car window and bounces off the screen of my phone, the glare of it a little blinding in the darkness of my car.

Sure, Jace and I have talked, though the conversations have been rushed. I could tell, even though I knew he was trying not to let me hear it, that there was hardly a spare moment to himself in the peace and quiet, when someone wasn't shouting at him.

Despite the fact that Jace and I have been stuck in between a rock and another rock for, well…a long time, it still irks me that people are ordering him around like they are. He is no one's inferior to be ordered around, though it doesn't seem that my husband knows that.

Okay, _obviously_ he knows that; he's _Jace freaking Herondale_ , the cockiest rock star to ever have graced the earth with his oh so charming presence. He could demand anything of nearly anyone and they'd more than likely do it. Does that kind of (totally) freak me out? Yeah, I mean would you not be freaked out if your significant other had that much power, that much control over other people?

I'm getting off track, but the point of that whole jumble of thoughts is that I don't think Jace knows he's basically being ordered around by people like he's their inferior little puppet—like a little boy who doesn't know what he's doing.

So lost in my own thoughts, I only notice the obsessive buzzing of my phone; it's nearly fallen off of my lap where I had it perched oh so precariously minutes before. I feel a smile tugging, forcing its way onto my face—it's Jace, his picture lit up on my phone screen, his chipped incisor tooth making his customary grin all the more endearing.

I scramble to pick it up, making some sort of noise of frustration at the back of my throat when—no matter how many times I drag my finger across the screen to answer—it won't just _answer_.

Until it finally does and I push the device to my ear, my heart beating relentlessly and restlessly against my ribcage—as though the bloody appendage could leap out any moment and soil the carpet beneath my fuzzy sock-clad feet.

The car is silent save for the buzz of New York traffic around us and the sound of the car's signal light when Jace says, "Hey, beautiful." I blush at the remark despite myself, and fight to shove the giggle that has rose up in my throat like bile back down. But it comes out regardless and I hear the blond on the other end sigh in contentment at the sound. It brings my slowly fading blush back with a vengeance and suddenly I become grateful for the darkness of the car.

"Someone's in a good mood tonight," I comment lightly, readjusting my grip on my phone.

"Do you know what time it is?" He says in response, and my brows knit together in confusion for a moment, but glancing over at the clock on my car's dash—

 _11:59 p.m._

One minute away from when Jace and I sealed our wedded union with a kiss seven years ago.

I feel tears pricking at the backs of my eyes as Simon pulls up at the end of my driveway, and he nudges me to look out my window.

I'm at a total loss for words, left completely, entirely speechless by the sight before me.

No rose petal pathways leading up the driveway, no candles or cliché boxes of chocolates.

No—it's something far more spectacular despite its simplicity: Jace, standing a few feet away, his infamous leather jacket as rumpled as his tawny curls, though his eyes are bright and in his left hand is clutched a bouquet of blue roses.

Frozen, I gape at Jace. He's real. He's here. This is happening— _not a dream_ , I remind myself repeatedly.

Languidly he walks towards the car, and I can feel Simon grinning like an idiot behind me as Jace pulls open the passenger side door, holding out his callused, golden-skinned hand for me to take. I marvel at the contrast between my porcelain, copper-splattered hand and his warm one that seems to swallow mine whole as he pulls me up and out of the car.

When I'm standing before him, I'm sure my jaw is unhinged at least a little and my eyes wider than saucers. But none of that seems to bother Jace as he grips my chin gently in his hand and pulls me to him, our lips meeting.

I try and try to push back the tears that are rolling down my cheeks like April downpour but to no avail as I feel the warm summer breeze brush against my arms and blow around my hair, the sky above dark blue-black and pierced by hundreds upon thousands of stars as it had been on our wedding night.

Jace pulls away far too soon to compensate for all the missing time. His smoldering gaze softens at the sight of my tear-streaked face, wiping away my tears with that same gentleness that had first surprised me so many years ago. He didn't look the type to be capable of such gentleness and yet—here he is, surprising me on our anniversary with blue roses and wiping away my tears.

As we stare at each other, I could swear that the stars above begin dancing to the rapid rhythm of my heart as it hammers tirelessly inside of me.

* * *

Simon shouts something along the lines of "occasional OTP" and speeds away down the street. I don't turn to watch his car head down my street until the headlights are but glowing specks in the distance—I can't take my eyes off of Jace because if I do he might disappear again. That thought makes the tears come back with a vengeance and before I know it Jace's arms are wrapped around me and I'm soaking his shirt with my tears. It's a really soft shirt.

"Why are you crying?" Jace asks, his voice calm as his hand travels up and down my spine, those skilled fingers making patterns on my shirt.

"Oh, you know," I sniff, "just making up for lost time."

"Lost time?" He laughs and I have to close my eyes a second, just to—just so I can take it all in. Take him all in. This isn't some mirage; he isn't going to disappear like a leprechaun the moment I blink.

"All the emotional breakdowns you missed, you know, that kind of stuff," I tell him.

"Of course," he replies, brushing back another pesky strand of my hair, a dark and deep auburn under only the light of the streetlamps overhead. "And not to ruin the moment, Clare, but I brought food and it's gonna get cold."

I laugh, laying my hand on his chest, glancing upwards to meet those aureate eyes I love so much. "How could that possibly ruin the moment?"

Jace shrugs, grinning at me. He takes my hand, leading me up the driveway, swinging our enjoined hands the way he always used to do. I know my cheeks are flushed and that I'm grinning impossibly wide and it's the best feeling in the world, I think to myself as I stare at Jace's profile, at the way the light and shadows work together to make him even better looking.

If our children look anything like him at all they'll have wars started over their beauty. Okay, maybe I'm being melodramatic—no. I'm totally being overdramatic. But Cleopatra started wars with her beauty and humans get better looking with evolution, so if you think about it really isn't all that ridiculous idea…if we're living amongst barbarians, that is.

Nope, you know what—that was a bunch of mumbo-jumbo I just spewed right there; the ramblings of someone with a scarily over-active imagination.

But Jon and Izzy's little bundle of joy (note the sarcasm because whatever traits that kid inherits from either of them is going to make them the living incarnation of Lucifer) is going to be absolutely adorable. I can't wait.

Jace is staring at me as we stand in the foyer, looking something akin to awed as he stares at me with those golden eyes, complimented by the alarmingly prominent bags under his eyes and his ruffled, tangled tawny curls.

"What?" I ask, almost shyly as I wrap my arms about myself, momentarily forgetting that I'm no longer the size of a toothpick with minimal curves for a moment.

"I think I lost you there," Jace says, even his tone seems slightly awed. "You go so far into your own head—I wish I could come with you." _But you do, you always do_.

"It's a mess up here," I tap the side of my head with a cracked, paint-cloaked nail.

Jace smiles softly, a barely there smile. "No, it's beautiful chaos. It's _you_."

* * *

"We're not watching that."

"Fine, what about—oh oh oh!" I lean across Jace's body, doing my best to avoid hitting anything with my belly as I snatch the remote from my amused husband's hand. "The Avengers," I grin at him as I drop the remote back onto the couch after selecting it on Netflix. _Age of Ultron_ is truly a masterpiece.

"I'm starting to think you like Chris Evans more than me," Jace comments as he uses his fork to steal some of my sesame chicken.

"Watch it, rock star," I tell him, wiggling my eyebrows at him as I use my own fork to steal some of _his_ precious moo shu pork.

"Or what?" He leans forward a little, his long legs crossed criss-cross-applesauce on our couch. There's a devilish gleam in his eyes and I can't say that I'm unfamiliar with it.

"Or maybe," I lean forward too, as if to punctuate my own point, "I'll ask Helen to make sure that next time you go on stage you're wearing a bright yellow duck costume."

"You wouldn't," Jace says in mock horror as he presses a melodramatic hand to his chest, eyes wide with feigned fear. I giggle and shake my head as Jace sits forward again and pulls me to him, an arm around my waist, pressing a kiss to my temple as I snuggle into his side and makes commentary every now and again about the movie.

* * *

"Did I tell you I loved you yet tonight?" Jace asks me as we lay so close to each other in bed that our noses could touch if either of us moved merely a millimetre.

"Yes," I tell him, "but that's not nearly enough." It might just be one of the most honest things I've said this month, horrible as that might sound.

Pressing his lips to my temple, he murmurs softly, his voice smooth like silk and honey, "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—" I stop hearing him when my giggles start coming in time with the full-fledged kicks from one of our babies. Maybe both—I can never tell.

I feel Jace's lips halt their movements across my skin, his hand coming to rest gently—nervously atop my own. "How often do they—?"

I shrug, though it's a little hard to do lying on my side. "Most days they do this a lot, usually when I'm painting." I slip my hand out from under his, the pads of my fingers going to ghost over the lines of Jace's hand. I don't believe I've ever seen him so amazed by something, honestly. But then again, I don't think I've ever been more amazed by anything, either. These babies growing inside me—they're both of us. These amazing little beings are half of me and half of Jace and if that isn't the most breath-stealing, amazing, awe-inspiring thing I've ever known, then I don't know what else possibly could be.

Jace buries his face in my shoulder, inhaling deeply, his hand still a warm and comforting reassuring thing as it rests atop my stomach. We fall asleep like that, our legs tangled together and his right arm wrapped securely around my waist, his left hand on my belly and my hair splayed out on the incredibly white pillows like a wildfire in the moonlit room.

* * *

 **I almost choked to death on the fluffiness. Ugh. It was too cute, okay? Sue me if I'm wrong. (Don't sue me, actually please, because I'm poorer than my updating skills.)**

 **Onto les reviews.**

 **Ads S: I'm so srry 'bout all the trees that had to die so you could wipe away your tears because of me. I, also, am dead inside, so we're quite similar in that way. And also,**

 **I FINISHED ACOMAF AND IT HAS LAID WASTE TO EVERYTHING, IT HAD NO QUALMS ABOUT DESTROYING EVERY HEALED AND HEALING PART OF ME. WHAT - WHY SARAH?! I DON'T WANT TO SPOIL ANYTHING FOR ANYBODY ELSE BUT YOU KNOW WHY TF I'M FLIPPING OUT K. MESSAGE ME BACK PLS I NEED TO _HARD_. **

**Page1of365: You can :)) I very much appreciate the kind comment.**

 **Janna: OhMyGod you have no idea the chaos those godly children will cause. It's going to be fantastic. Okay, so Clary is almost 9 months along and Izzy is about 4, 4 1/2 months along if I'm correct. (Izzy's bundle of joy should be born around December, if that helps.) I have been so busy, I haven't had time to read DIMILY, I'll add it to my To Be Read for August.**

 **Yumna98: Simon cheated on Izzy because he sort of fell in love with Maureen while working on her case with her (she was in an emotionally abusive relationship) and him sleeping with her was sort of an impulse decision (which is big, because Simon isn't that big on doing things on impulse). Jace's problem will be revealed sometime next chapter, I believe.**

 **A Brunette Angel: Good news: my brain is no longer totally frazzled. Jon may be my favourite character in this story, not gonna lie. Especially in Paradox, oh my god I love writing him. And Izzy. And well all of them. I just really love the people they were as teenagers and who they've become, you know? Yeah, that's why I tend to shy away from Clace baby stories; they don't include really anything about the baby and the whole process unless it's pertinent to the main plot/love story. Kinda bums me out. No no! Please don't apologize for the long review, I love hearing what you think!**

 **Mentirosas: I throw many a many things while writing Jace's stupidity (the main thing being my laptop, which cannot stand for further abuse from me). AHHH Jizzy is the best, okay. Jon and Izzy are just such great characters, in my opinion - and put them together - anyways, I'm just glad people have for the most part supported my decision to break apart Sizzy and allow me to explore something I've never done before. :)) Jace has a whole lot of problems, which will be revealed next chapter and in the prequel.**


	21. Burst

**Firstly, hello all! Thank you for being patient with me!**

 **Secondly, it took me so long to write this chapter and it's barely 4,000 words. I'm losing my touch.**

 **Anyways, I think this just might be the chapter you're all looking forward to! :))**

* * *

"Don't be nervous, you've done this before, everything will be fine." Jace says, his thumbs rubbing circles on the backs of my hands. The warmth of his skin against mine is a very much welcome presence, comforting and reassuring.

"I know," I murmur, shifting on my feet, trying to ease the weight. My feet are incredibly swollen today, of all possible days. They've been swollen before, sure, that's a given part of carrying children, but today—today my feet really hate me. I look up from under my lashes, meeting Jace's concerned gaze. "I'm okay—but maybe you should carry me," I offer with a wide grin.

I almost shriek as my husband bends low to brace an arm under my knees and another on my back, picking me up in his arms bridal style in one easy swoop. My hands grab at the air for something to hold onto, as if I'm going to fall—as if Jace would let me fall—until they come to somehow clasp around Jace's neck. It kind of reminds of our wedding night.

"Where to, Mrs. Herondale?" My golden boy whispers against the shell of my ear coercing me to giggle.

"Well, I'm pretty sure that I'm wanted over in hair and makeup—if you've been listening to a thing Helen has said to you."

"Hair and makeup." He nods, as if confirming it to himself.

As Jace carries me, I spot Izzy, barking things at a few unlucky people, all while holding a conversation with a pale-skinned woman with cropped black hair, a soft smile to match and even softer brown eyes. Somehow, I had allowed Isabelle to convince me to take a "much needed" trip to the spa yesterday, and while I don't regret it, it gave my obsidian-eyed best friend a chance to disclose something she'd been keeping from both Jace and me for a while.

More than a dozen incredibly well-known magazines had come forward and offered unspeakably large sums of money to get their hands on the, as Izzy had so eloquently put it: "Herondale Twins Spread." I had stopped listening at that point and let her ramble on about it.

So here I am, nine months pregnant, probably about to burst, and being carried around the set for the photo shoot by my Prince Charming.

"I love you," Jace presses a kiss to the crown of my head after setting me down in a chair before one of the mirrors bordered by light bulbs lit a warm yellow colour. I don't know why, but it kind of reminds me of Old Hollywood.

"I love you too," I tip my head back to look at him; his aureate eyes are all but glowing, and his skin is tanned more now that we're into the warm months. It dawns on me in that moment that he's twenty-seven now—that I'm going to be twenty seven soon. Everything's moving so quick and I'm not sure whether I should panic or not.

We just sort of stare at each other, until someone calls Jace over (it sounds like Izzy, but I'm not sure) and he has to go do something. Not long after Jace is gone does a woman come over and begin painting my face with a variety of things, a whole after, a man with the best hair I think I've ever seen (it's turquoise, green, and black with glitter) comes over and takes a curling wand to my already-curly hair, turning the wild frizz to smooth, flowing waves. I finally look up at my reflection, ready to take it all in.

My eyes are lined with black kohl, my lashes the long, voluminous companion to the liner. My brows (which Isabelle had taken me to get done a few days ago) are filled in, and my lips are painted bright, vibrant red. Not really thinking, I bring my fingers to them—but it doesn't smudge, doesn't smear.

I've already been to wardrobe—or whatever it's called. I don't really remember—and they had me dress in a cream sweater and black leggings. It's not quite what I expected, but I don't mind. And because my feet are swollen, they let me go barefoot. The people working on this shoot may be some of the nicest, most considerate people I've met in this business.

"Are you ready, Clary?" Helen asks, appearing at my side, probably out of thin air. She's good at that sort of thing, you know—sneaking up on people. Specifically Jace and I, and occasionally Izzy, when she's feeling gutsy and okay with getting karate chopped.

I draw in a breath, glancing around; at the lighting guys playing with the different settings while Jace stands there on the set, seeing what lighting might be best for the shoot, at the camerawoman, Helen seemingly following my gaze.

"That's my girlfriend, Aline," Helen smiles softly, fondly. Adoration comes off of her in waves, and there's love shining in her eyes. I hope her girlfriend knows how much she cares for her.

"Will you introduce us when there's time?" I look at her profile, watching her as she watches Aline fiddle with different things on the camera, around the camera.

"Absolutely," the blonde turns back to me, that soft smile still lighting her remarkable features, her absolutely stunning turquoise eyes. "Now come on, we want to get this done as soon as possible so you're not on your feet all day—you should be resting, your water could break any day now."

"It's okay," I tell Helen, putting my hand on her shoulder, though I know my empty reassurance won't do anything to stop the blonde from stressing. "I'm fine; I'm not due for two weeks."

She eyes my stomach, but it's not the gawking that I've more often than not seen fans and paparazzi doing—it's a concerned gaze, just like one Izzy or Jace or Si would give me.

"Either way, you shouldn't be on your feet."

* * *

"Tilt your head a little bit—there, stop! That's perfect!" Aline smiles from behind the camera.

Jace's arms are currently wrapped around my waist, his hands resting comfortably on top on my belly, and I've laid my head on his chest. The twins are being unusually stoic today and I wonder for a moment if they'll be more like me, shy when before a camera, or more like Jace; a natural in front of the camera. Maybe they'll have Jace's eyes and my hair, or his tawny locks and share the Fairchild eyes; perhaps one of them will be spattered in freckles like me with gold skin like their dad. Just thinking about it makes me giddy to have them—just so I can see them, hold them, watch them grow.

Unknowingly, I've started smiling widely, so wide my cheeks feel like an elastic band pulled taut. "What're you thinking about?" Jace asks in a hushed voice, his warm breath on my skin making me want to shiver.

Tipping my head back to look him in the eyes, I tell him, "The twins—I'm thinking about whether they'll look like me, or more like you; whether they'll have your hair or mine, my green eyes or your absolutely mesmerizing ones. Do you think they'll have freckles?"

Jace hums against the space between my neck and shoulder, contemplating. "I think they'll both have freckles, and I think that they'll have my jaw line—it's a Herondale trait, you know? And I'd bet money that they'll have the same star-shaped birthmark as me—that's a Herondale trait too."

"Sounds like you've put quite a lot of thought into this," I tease, unable to help myself from staring up at him. He's mine, he really is.

He smiles, "You have no idea."

* * *

It's dark, so dark in the bedroom with the moon absent and the stars practically invisible in the cloudy night sky. I don't think I realized just how dark it could get in our bedroom at night.

But it's not the absence of light that's roused me—no, that's so laughable if I weren't suffering from the worst period cramps in history I would toss myself back on the bed and laugh myself hoarse.

Gently, slowly I push myself up into a sort of sitting position, half leaning on the heap of pillows behind me, clutching at my stomach, groaning. I try rocking myself a little—that sometimes helped before with my cramps, but no—no that seems to make it worse, makes my breathing hitch. I groan again and set my hands down on the bed, searching for Jace's hand.

The bed is wet beneath my hand, and I expect to pull it up, only to find it red, coated in blood. Exhaling deeply and trying not to focus on the incredible pain, I pull it up, prepared to grimace at the blood—but my hand comes away the same as it had been when I set it down, just…wet.

And then it dawns on me.

 _Oh my god_. _Oh. My. God_. " _Oh my god! Jace, oh my god_!"

He sits bolt upright, and I have to stop myself of doubling over in pain—I have the sneaking suspicion that it would just make the pain fractionally worse, anyway.

"Clary—what's wrong? Do I need to get the gun?"

"You don't _own_ a gun," I try to shoot back, but the last word barely comes out and my breaths are coming heavier. Jace's hands go to my back, roaming, unsure. "Jace—Jace I think my water broke."

* * *

 ** _~Jace~_**

"Holy _shit_ — _shit, shit, shit_ —!" I all but fly from the bed, heading for the closet where I'm pretty sure Clary stored her hospital bag. "Do I need to call an ambulance? What do I need to do? _Shit_ —" I don't know what to say, what to do, so I just keep cursing. What the hell do I do? And just looking back at her—it hurts me to see her in so much pain, knowing that there's nothing I can do, that technically, I'm the cause of this.

"Call Isa—" She groans, looking like she wants to curl in on herself. Right; call Isabelle. Isabelle will know what to do. I scramble for my phone before remembering I left it in the kitchen, and begin to scramble for Clary's phone. I can't get it to work fast enough, can't dial the number fast enough.

"Come on, come on, _come on_ —"

"Clare? It's like three in the morning—why are you—"

"Isabelle! Oh thank god—help me!"

"Jace?" She sounds suddenly more awake, her voice not so thick with the remnants of sleep.

"Fuck, help me Izzy—her water broke!"

"You're serious—oh my—Jon! Wake up!" She shouts, and murmured words and miserable groan are all that I can hear. "What do you mean, _how could I wake you from your beauty sleep_?! Your sister is in going into goddamn _labour_ , and that's all you can say!"

In that second, I think Jonathan might rival my record of F-bombs dropped in under a minute.

"Okay, listen to me Jace—do not panic, don't worry her—"

"I think it's a little late for that—"

"Drive her to the hospital," Isabelle breathes in deeply, sounding more worried than she is annoyed with my stupidity.

When I don't say anything for a moment, nodding to myself, Clary groaning on our bed, Isabelle takes it upon herself to shout, " _Now_ , dumbass!" So loudly into the receiver I have to pull the phone away from my ear, hanging up.

Okay, I can do this—I have to be strong for Clary.

Swinging the hospital bag over my shoulder, I slip my arm under her legs and back, murmuring, "Just breathe," over and over as I begin to head down the hallway. When we're at the top of the stairs, she tries to tell me she can walk, she can do it herself. I know she's more than capable of it, but it'd be easier if I carried her, faster. Wouldn't it?

I have no idea what I'm doing and I know I'm going to end up doing something I shouldn't, something I'm not supposed to. All I can think is _I'm so sorry Clary_ , because I won't soon forget the groans of pain and the scrunched up look on her beautiful face—I won't ever forget the pain she's going to go through bringing our children into the world.

* * *

 ** _~Clary~_**

I remember my mom telling me that experiencing contractions was like experiencing the worst period cramps in the world, and I remember her telling me at my baby shower that on a scale of one to ten, the pain was an eleven or twelve. I'd have to agree with her.

I don't recall much of the car ride, only that the pain I was experiencing was overriding Jace's panicked, worried glances as he cursed at the traffic blocking our way. And all I can recollect after that is a nurse coming over to Jace, asking him what was wrong, as if she couldn't see my bulging belly; being set down on a hospital bed and being wheeled away, attached to machines, and someone panicked exclaiming: "She's nearly fully dilated!"

But now, the pain isn't so bad—the pain isn't so much that I can't focus anymore.

"That was an epidural," a nurse tells me as she tapes a tube onto my shoulder. "It's mixed with some painkillers and other things to help lessen the pain during labour, it can work so well you might not be able to feel your contractions."

"Oh," is all I can think to say.

"The doctor should be here within a few moments," the nurse, a brown-haired woman with soft eyes, flicks her eyes above my head and I can only assume there's a clock perched up there because she says, "Any minute now."

"Jace…?" The pain hits me again and the nurse advises me to take deep breaths, in and out. She says it's very important for me to breathe, and also tells me not to hold my breath when the doctor tells me to push.

"Your husband," she explains, demonstrating again how I should breathe, "Is getting changed—he should be arriving soon. Quite stressed that man is—is this your first?"

I nod, breathing deeply despite the fact that from my abdomen down I feel utterly numb. "It's about to be my first two, actually."

"Oh twins," she smiles warmly, nodding. After a few seconds of a pleasant silence in which I close my eyes, thinking that I could almost go back to sleep, the door opens, banging into something. "Oh, and that'll be Doctor Lightwood."

I almost sit bolt upright, but fall back onto the pillows behind me when the pain I'm becoming well acquainted with decides to come back for another visit. " _Lightwood_?" My mouth is hanging open and disbelief and hope are coursing through me. It can't be—

The Doctor's dark head lifts up, those familiar, shockingly electric blue eyes piercing me through and through— And suddenly I'm crying, the salty rivulets rolling unrestrainedly down my face.

"Alec," I whisper, and maybe it's the hormones or me being so completely, happily in shock, but all of a sudden I'm crying harder than I have in months and the nurse is looking between Alec and I, manifestly confused beyond belief.

He just stares at me, his mouth hanging open a little bit. "Clary?" He takes a few cautious steps towards my bed, as if afraid I'm not who he thinks I am, as if afraid one wrong step and I'll disappear. "You're so…grown up," it's his turn to whisper, and I remember that this is the first time he's seen me since Izzy and Jace and I were thirteen. I haven't seen him in twenty years—his sister hasn't since him in twenty years.

I try to chuckle through my tears, trying to breathe deeply to hopefully prevent any contractions from ruining this reunion. "I'm also in labour."

I hadn't even noticed Jace was standing behind Alec until, "Clary, why are you crying? What's wrong?"

I manage a weary smile, the pain starting again, but it's not so intense when it starts—though it doesn't take long to become that way. Breathe, I need to breathe. I repeat the words like the chorus of a song in my head over and over again, my nurse standing at the end of my bed, demonstrating the technique for me again, Jace rushing past the Doctor, completely unaware that it's his elder, adoptive brother.

Aureate eyes searching my own, I try to communicate with him that I'm fine, just really happy, though it's more than a little difficult to do during a contraction. It's only now that I notice what Jace is wearing: scrubs, and a hair cap. In other circumstances, I think I might have laughed—the mighty rock star, the one who refuses to wear anything but a black shirt, leather jacket and jeans to his shows, wearing scrubs.

"Uh, Doctor," the nurse addresses the still-stunned Alec Lightwood, "the patient is fully dilated."

Hurrying to my bed, checking some things with the nurse (and another one who comes in), he sits at the end of my bed, proceeding to peer up at me with those all too familiar eyes. "I want you to sit with your knees bent and apart, alright Clary?" I nod and shift my position. It isn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but Jace tries his best to help me and lets me squeeze his hand. I don't let it go once I'm sitting properly. I squeeze his hand more tightly than I think I've ever squeezed it.

"Listen to your body; push when you feel a strong urge," Alec nods at me from over my stomach.

There's a strong pressure between my legs, and the contractions are getting worse—so much worse, more frequent, if that's possible. And with them comes the strong urge to push. So I push with everything I have in me, feeling a scream involuntarily tear from my throat.

"Good Clary, you're doing well," I hear Alec say somewhere in between contractions and pushing and horror movie screams—because it hurts so bad and I hear someone call for a top-up, not that I know what it means. All I can focus on is pushing and the pain that tells me I am, indeed, pushing with everything in me.

A new kind of pain—worse, somehow, than the one I'd been experiencing mere seconds ago—rips a new, rawer scream from my throat.

"I can see the baby's head!" Someone says—I think it's one of the nurses.

I push with a renewed vigour, and somewhere in between my contractions, Alec asks me to stop pushing and just breathe for a second. I don't want to stop pushing; it _hurts_ , and I want it to stop, I want this baby and the next _out_. But at the same time, I feel exhausted, bone-weary.

"Alright, now push again, Clary."

"Just a few more!" One of the nurses tells me, and I squeeze Jace's hand like I never have before, and push for the life of me.

I think Jace is telling me he loves me, but I can hardly hear anything over my screaming and the ringing in my ears, my head that my screams leave behind.

That's when I hear it—perhaps the most amazing, beautiful thing I've heard in all my life: crying, my baby, crying, screaming. I feel tears pricking at the backs of my eyes and I'm about to ask to hold him or her when Alec tells me not to stop pushing.

"Push, Clare, you're almost done, I promise." Jace's words are sweet, but they go in one ear and out the other as I take a deep breath and _push_. And push. And push.

I think someone asks Jace if he'd like to cut the cord but I'm not entirely sure.

Then—"I can see his head!" His. That must mean that the first baby was the girl—our daughter.

I'm a mom.

Oh my god, I'm a _mom_.

I take a deep breath and push as hard as I can, aiming to hear another beautiful cry twining in with the ones of my baby girl at the end of it.

"One more Clary! One more, I promise," Alec's voice is an odd sort of reassurance as I give one last, hopefully finally push.

And I hear it—I really do; the cry of my little boy as Jace kisses my forehead.

"You're done, Clare! Because of you"—my husband grabs my other hand—"we have two beautiful children." He kisses my sweaty forehead, my chest heaving. "You want to hold them?"

"What kind of question is that?" I ask him, because, _really_ , what kind of question is that? Of course I want to hold my babies.

Jace grins that heart-stopping, breath-taking, absolutely stunning grin that I love so much and kisses me on the cheek before turning away. I let my eyes close, and I'm reminded that the last time I looked at the clock it was sometime after one in the morning. I wonder what time it is now. It feels like that could have been the longest labour in the world or it could have been the shortest.

"Clary, open your eyes," Jace's voice is gentle, like a soothing caress to my ears that have been hearing nothing but my horror movie screams for god knows how long[K1] . My eyes are sore, tired, but I open them regardless—I would've opened them if I hadn't slept in days and this was the first time I was able to sleep—because there is nothing I want more in the world to finally, _finally_ lay eyes upon my babies. My children.

"Oh my god," I whisper as Jace lays one of them in the crook of my right arm and the other in the crook of my left arm. I look up at Jace, knowing full and well that my eyes are glossy and I'm on the verge of balling. I notice that the nurses are gone but Alec—Alec is loitering, albeit a little awkwardly, but he looks completely awed by the sight of me and Jace and our gorgeous little babies.

"I got to cut the cords," Jace whispers, seemingly more to himself than to me as it dawns on me that the last time Alec saw me I was thirteen, Jace and I both were. Jace was just Alec and Izzy's incredibly irritating brother, and I was just someone for Jace to occasionally tease when he wasn't ignoring my existence entirely. At that point, Jace and I being together couldn't have even been a thought, to anyone.

But between the awed, sort of start struck looks he keeps giving me and the completely and utterly dumbfounded look he has on his face when he stares at the bundles in my arms makes me believe that there was never another option, never anyone else—that this was the way it was meant to be.

* * *

 **Sorry if I bored you. I had a hard time getting back into the characters - but I feel like you're all going to really like the next chapter.**

 **And idk, maybe it was just me, but did the chapter feel like kind of a cliff hanger to you?**

 **Whatever, doesn't matter because CLARY JUST HAD HER BABIES OKAY. AND JACE IS SO IN AWE I LOVE IT.**

 **Onto les reviews.**

 **Yumna98: You're too sweet, okay? But I plan on finishing Fading first, mostly because I already have an Epilogue in mind even if I'm not entirely sure how it's going to end yet. I don't want to give too much spoilery, but just, Jace as a dad okay.**

 **Ads S: I'm not gonna lie, I laughed much harder than I should've at your innuendo. Oh my god. Jesus Christ. But I totally agree, because I really think that Clary did need Jace to show up, and even though she wouldn't say it, I think she kind of, internally, is trying to prove a point to the two parts of herself. One of those parts is the one that tells her to leave him, that she could find someone else. The other part is the one that tells argues that, yes, perhaps she'd find someone else to love, but she'd always be looking for him in whoever it was - this is the part that's trying to prove to Clary that Jace loves her, that he will do anything to prove it to her. (BUT ALSO, EMPIRE OF STORMS, CAN WE TALK ABOUT THIS? 700 PAGES?! I AM READY.)**

 **sunflowerexpress: Aw, I'm glad you took the time to read my stories and I really hope you liked them, and that you're enjoying Fading and Paradox! :))**

 **Californication19: *whispering* I ship them.**

* * *

 **Drop me a review?**


	22. Golden Boy

**Aye! I'm back, well, I mean I never left, I've been on here at least twice every week, not that I've published anything lmao. But I read through the reviews on this story and I just smile. It makes me so happy to know I've created something that you all love so much, that you spend you're time reading, favouriting, reviewing. But school is actually hell and I'm riding a bike through it and the bike is on fire and my homework is on fire and I'm on fire and I'm screaming and my eyes are bleeding and my butt is sore from the stools in my science class.**

 **Anyways, I miss writing and updating so like here's the last chapter.**

 **Sike, I'm a bad person, but the Epilogue is next, so be prepared because that is almost done (I think? I'm not sure how much more I want to add to it after I write the rest of what I have semi-thought out).**

 **I'm really excited to update Paradox, and to post the next one after Paradox (the second in this series, like in the middle of Fading and Paradox) which currently doesn't have a title.**

 **But you know what does have a title? ACOTAR3. A COURT OF WINGS AND RUIN. OH MY GOD I'M NOT READY GIVE ME THE BOOK ALREADY. I NEED TO BE EMOTIONALLY DESTROYED/EMOTIONALLY CRIPPLED FOR WEEKS. But speaking of book releases, Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy is pretty good, but I want to cry whenever he sees Clary or Izzy. Simon, my baby, just remember, please, spare me this pain.**

 **Oh, almost forgot, I put together a little playlist for Fading of songs that inspired some chapters and just songs I listened to on repeat, and aggressively, while writing this.**

 **- _Love Don't Die_ by _The Fray_**

 **- _Wasted_ by _Tiesto_**

 **- _Angel_ by _Theory of a Deadman_**

 **- _Mirrors_ by _Pvris_**

 **- _Hurt_ by _Johnny Cash_**

 **- _Flawless_ by _The Neighborhood_**

 **- _I Don't Wanna Be In Love_ by _Good Charlotte_**

 **- _Miss Murder_ by _AFI_**

 **- _Haven't Had Enough_ by _Marinas Trench_**

 **- _Lights Out_ by _AudioDamn!_**

 **- _Stop and Stare_ by _OneRepublic_**

 **- _Empty Gold_ by _Halsey_**

 **- _Stay_ by _Kygo_**

 **- _Afraid_ by _The Neighborhood_**

 **- _Idfc_ by _Blackbear_**

 **- _Pain_ by _Three Days Grace_**

 **- _All I Ever Wanted_ by _Kelly Clarkson_**

 **Okay, maybe it's not so little, but that's okay, it's okay, just go read.**

* * *

"Oh my god!" Isabelle squeals from the door way, her hands up by her face and making spastic motions as she smiles so vibrantly I'm sure her cheeks will hurt later. "My babies!" And with that, she dashes past my nurses that must have led them to the room and to my side, sitting hesitantly on the edge of my bed, opposite Jace, who's sitting in a plastic, fabric-padded chair as close as humanely possible to my side.

"Can I hold them? Have you named them?! Tell me their names, Clarissa! I command you!"

I laugh, "You're commanding me?"

"Yes," Iz answer firmly, and I notice for the first time my parents holding each other and watching me and their first grandchildren lovingly, and my brother hovering awkwardly between them and Simon and little Max, who's hiding behind his dad's legs.

"Hi, Maxie," I wave at him, an action which he shyly returns. He's so much like Simon sometimes it hurts.

"Names! Come on Clar-eeeeeeee! What are their names?!" Isabelle[K1] is practically begging at this point, and I bet if I remained completely silent, she'd get on her knees beside me and plead.

But I'm not that mean.

"This"—I look at the baby tucked into the crook of my right arm, her pink soother moving a little as she sucks on it, her little eyes closed and her tiny hands fisted—"is Allison Céline Herondale." In the few moments before our family had crowded the room, and it'd been peaceful, Jace had suggested the name of his late mother, and honestly, it couldn't fit more perfectly. I know it'd taken him a lot of courage to suggest the name for reasons that to this day he still doesn't like to talk about, but I'm proud of him for it.

"Oh that's beautiful honey," My mom says from where she's standing by the door, my dad smiling and nodding his approval of the name[K2] .

"And my nephew?" Izzy demands expectantly, clearly sitting on the edge of her seat.

"His name"—I smile fondly at my little boy, his wide-set eyes suddenly opening; they're the most stunning green, ringed with gold—"is Alexander Granville Herondale—Alec for short." I swear I catch Alec practically melting with this smile like he's about to cry on his lips. "After your brother," I tell Izzy who nods, tears falling down her face.

"Thank you," she whispers, bringing up the collar of her blouse to wipe away the tears.

And maybe I shouldn't do it, maybe Alec doesn't want his sister to know that he's here, but I gesture for Izzy to come closer and whisper in her ear, "The doctor? That's Alec, dude, Alec _Lightwood_."

She pulls away from me, looking at me like I'm crazy, but I hold firm and nod my head at Alec. Isabelle stands up, and brushing away invisible dust from her shoulder she strides over to him. I think everyone in the room is watching with baited breath—at least I am.

"Alec." It isn't a question as she stares up at him, unyielding, a force to be reckoned with—someone who leaves her mark like a brand on your skin, still prominent and fresh even after she's long gone.

"Hi," he waves awkwardly at his sister, cheeks flushing red, eyes darting around the room, looking at anything but his sister, anywhere but at his adoptive brother.

Jabbing a finger at his chest, it looks like Izzy would much rather be laying total and utter waste to him with her fists. "Bastard," she snarls, dropping her hand from his chest. "I hate you so much—do you even understand what it's like to be left alone? God knows _she_ didn't care, and _I relied on you_. Maybe that was stupid of me, but I was thirteen—and for the life of me, I just couldn't wrap my head around why you didn't care enough to stay!"

Jon is trying to hold Izzy against his chest, calm her down, I think, but she's having none of it, pushing my brother back a few stumbling steps.

Alec stands there, his cheeks still smeared with scarlet—but he's not fighting back. He's simply taking it. Because he deserves it, I know it, hell, my Mom knows.

And he knows.

Her hands are back at his chest, pushing him into the counter behind him, and when Isabelle moves her head certain ways; I can see the tears shining and shimmering in the bright overhead lights.

* * *

Allison's finally opened her little eyes, and they're green. She inherited my eyes, my mom's eyes, the Fairchild eyes—and it makes me beam with pride. There's a small tuft of blonde hair atop her small head, and I wonder if it will darken into Jace's golden colour, or if it'll be pale and white like my Dad's or Jon's.

"Oh, look at him!" My Mom coos over Alec, rocking him slowly, gently back and forth in her arms. "He's got red hair just like us, Clare."

"It's brown," Jon says, a frown creasing his forehead, the corners of his mouth twitching downwards. "It's brown isn't it Sissy?"

"It's brown, Clare," Si nods in agreement with my brother, who kind of looks like he wants to hit Simon on the back of the head.

"No—" I lean forward in my bed to look at my little boy where my Mom is holding him, sitting on the edge of my bed next to Isabelle, his previously wondering eyes fixed solely on his Grandma's hair, seemingly mesmerized by the vividness of the colour. "That's definitely red, guys."

"It's brown, Clarissa, what are you and your Mom on about?" Dad says, staring at Alec's head, readjusting his hold on Allison.

"Fine, if none of you think its red— _which it is_ —we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?" I say finally, and Izzy nods so enthusiastically I'm a little worried she's going to give herself whiplash. Or snap her neck. One of the two. I don't think I have seen Isabelle this happy since the day Simon finally asked her out, and to think, it's all because Alec accidentally walked back into our lives and decided to stay.

I look to Jace—who, despite my probably nearly snapping some of his bones, is still holding my hand—to find he's staring at me. "Aren't they amazing?" I let my eyes wander back to Mom and Dad, to find that they've passed on the twins (most likely begrudgingly) to my brother and Simon. Max is on his tippy toes, trying to get a glimpse of Alec (who Simon is holding) since he's lower to the ground than Jon and Allison.

"They're half of you, and you're astonishing, so how could they not be?" The words leave me just as dumbfounded as Jace is at the sight of our children—because how on earth am I supposed to respond to that?

"If I was good with words, you bet your ass I'd have you bawling right now, Jonathan Christopher." Just to hammer the point home, I suppose, I stick out my tongue like a petulant child at him, my arms crossed over my chest.

But of course, Jon _and_ Jace look up at me.

"Is there a specific reason you want me to cry, Sissy, or is it just because I'm me?" Sometimes, I really want to throw things at Jonathan. Like…a pillow. Or a brick—either or.

"While I would enjoy seeing you bawl like a baby, Jon…I was talking to the other Jonathan Christopher. You know, the one I'm married to?" I was going to say, _you know, the blond one_ , but technically, they're both blond and it would have just made the situation worse.

Jonathan looks like he's about to retort something, but instead turns to Isabelle, holding Allison kind of awkwardly in his arms.

"Oh so you want me to cry, I see how it is," Jace Herondale, everyone, world famous rock star and smartass of the century.

I roll my eyes, muttering "drama queen" at him.

* * *

A few days (and many visitors, including Helen and Aline, who are too adorable for their own good) later I'm being discharged, and staring at the little mock birth certificates that the hospital allowed us to keep, while the legitimate ones are sent away to wherever. One is pink, the other blue. The pink one declares it to be a boy (funnily enough), named Alexander Granville (after my Granddad) Herondale, weighing six pounds and nine ounces, born at 3:08 a.m. And the blue one reads, Allison Céline Herondale, six pounds and seven ounces, born at 3:02 a.m.

"Ready to go?" Jace asks, wrapping his hands around me from behind, pressing his chapped lips to the pulse at my throat. It's a little uncomfortable, his arms wrapped around me. My stomach is fractionally smaller than it was a few days ago, but I'm not stupid enough to believe it'll go exactly back to the way it was before immediately—or all on its own. I guess I'll have to start going to the gym with Isabelle again. My god, how long has it been since I worked out regularly? Or at all?

"Are the car seats set up?"

"Yes," Jace answers, chuckling. "Isabelle-checked and approved."

"Oh?" I spin out of his arms to face him, cocking a half curious, and half challenging eyebrow. What I'm challenging him about, I'm not entirely sure myself.

"Really; I'll stamp something if it makes it more official. Alec and Allison will be perfectly safe, and you won't have to worry about a thing." But I will worry, and worry, _and worry_ , and no amount of assurances will stop me of worrying. And what about the paparazzi? What has Izzy released to the press thus far? Does the world know that I went into labour much too early in the morning two days ago? Or are they still speculating that Jace is leaving me for some hot Russian model?

Probably, if I'm going to be honest with myself. Even if Izzy hasn't told them anything, I'm sure word has made its way around the hospital, and I am even surer that someone couldn't resist telling any news outlet that would listen. That's how it works, how Jace's world works—how our world works. Mere months ago that thought alone probably would have been enough to send the first domino knocking into the next. I would have crumbled again and probably for good.

But I am stronger; I am in a much better place than I was, and I refuse to ever let myself fall— _or walk_ —back in to that dark abyss of loneliness and misery and absolute hopelessness. I am going to walk out of this hospital hand in hand with my golden boy with our children and prove to that ever-doubtful voice at the back of my head, that this is exactly where I'm supposed to be, and not off with one of the imaginary men I dreamt up what feels like so long ago.

* * *

 _Eight months later…_

Everything is perfect; from the spring-green grass and the newly-bloomed May flowers swaying softly in the breeze; to the sun bright and warm, partially hidden behind a large tree and casting strange and beautiful shapes on the altar—on Jon as he stands shoulders back, head held high and proud. His salt-white hair is as unruly as ever, though it no longer falls over his eyes. In his white suit with black trim and bowtie, he looks more handsome than I have ever seen him.

He beams at me as I walk down the aisle behind Max, who bears a little treasure box with the rings inside in one hand, leaving vibrant red flower petals in his wake with the other as everybody rises to stand. I return the smile tenfold, feeling that smile spread into a skin-splitting, ear-to-ear grin when I catch Jace's eye from where he sits in the front row as I walk past.

Turning my attention back to my brother, I watch his smile drop, watch his jaw unhinge itself and fall to the ground at the sight of his bride.

And as I take my place on the right side of the altar, slightly behind Jon, I get to take in the sight of my best friend, all but _glowing_ with happiness as she walks down the white carpet laid out in front of her, splayed with red-as-blood rose petals—that she earlier this morning described as the blood of her enemies—and bouquet of lavender-coloured flowers clutched in her hands, her right arm threaded through Alec's elbow.

Isabelle's dress looks even more amazing than it did the first time she slipped it on weeks ago; the sweetheart neckline showing off her collarbones. The off-the-shoulder lace-constructed straps accenting the lacy, diamond-detailed bodice, the lace bleeding in long strips into the tulle skirt of her dress.

When she and Alec reach the altar, he kisses her gently on the cheek and gives her hand to my absolutely awe-struck brother before heading over to stand opposite me on the altar, behind his sister.

It seems as though I merely blinked and gold rings are glimmering on both Jon and Izzy's fingers and the priest is telling Jon: "You may kiss the bride."

So he dips Izzy low, and kind of just stays still, his lips hovering over hers, eyes roaming her face. And in typical Izzy fashion, she rolls her eyes, and pulls Jon's head to hers. The crowd whooping and hollering and clapping, Luce, in her little dusty lavender dress, claps her chubby hands and squeals in Alec's arms. Max, smiling widely behind his thick frames and bouncing on the balls of his feet, looks like he's eaten one too many of the cupcakes Helen brought, on Izzy's request.

I turn my head towards Jace, remembering with fondness our own wedding day, the way he had held me and spun me as we danced, me giggling in my wedding dress and heels. I had felt like a princess. I smile at him, at Ally who looks like she's trying to crawl towards me, chanting a steady stream of _Mom, mom, mama_ , and to Alec, who looks mostly content to sit in Jace's lap.

Casting another glance to Jon and Izzy, who unsurprisingly are still locked together, I head over to Jace, swooping low to snatch up Allison, hoisting her up on my hip. Her little fingers go straight for my loose red curls, grabbing at them and giggling in delight when they get tangled.

"Well, aren't you handsome," I smirk up at my husband from underneath copper lashes painted black as he stands before me, readjusting his hold on a thumb-sucking Alec. His purple tie matches Alec and Simon's own. It matches my dress, too—along with Helen and Aline's.

"I'm no more handsome than you are gorgeous."

I roll my eyes, but smile all the same. I can't stop smiling, and I suddenly, with staggering clarity, remember the endless dark pit I had been trapped in months ago, and the hole within me—and that this is what _better_ is. The thought that I'd find this somewhere else, that I was meant to be anywhere else, makes me shake my head.

"Well—" I stick my tongue out at Jace in reply, lost for words. He does that to me a lot. I like to tell myself I don't like when he does it, but I do, and I don't think I'll ever not like it.

* * *

Izzy and Alec are about to share the first dance of the night, when Isabelle yells, "Wait! Wait! Hold on!" Jon gives her an odd look, his mouth quirked up and his eyes lit with adoration. "I want to throw my bouquet!"

Alec laughs, a hearty noise that makes his cheeks pink a little, which makes his husband smile and the little boy in Magnus's arms move around and reaches out for Alec. I think I feel my icy heart melting a little bit.

Isabelle gets Jon to lift her up so she has a little more height over the crowd, and turns so her back to the crowd made up of mostly of women, my mother included. With a noise that sounds kind of like a grunt, Izzy heaves the bouquet behind her head—so hard it flies above the reaching hands and, God knows why, I lift my arms to catch it. I want to laugh when my fingers wrap around the stem of the lavender and white bouquet.

Jon's arms are around Izzy again, her laugh echoing around the room, as everyone else joins in. "Be careful rock star!" She calls, "Or I might be advertizing Hollywood's hottest new bachelor!" I laugh hard at that, and harder then when I see Jace's scowl, though the left side of his mouth is twitching upwards. Alec claps his chubby little hands in my Mom's arms, and she smiles at me, hiding a laugh beneath her hand when Jace glances at her. But he knows she's laughing—everyone is laughing, and I'm nearly doubling over. By this point, I like to think I've seen every one of Jace's worst sides, and there hasn't been one scary enough to send me running so I think we'll be okay.

* * *

 **So, sorry if that was a crappy pre-epilogue chapter, I may have lost my touch after my English teacher told me my essay was "too flowery" and I stopped writing for like two weeks. But I hope you liked it, because even though I'm still writing with these characters, I'll miss them. Who they've grown into and become in Fading.**

 **I'm done being sappy, I promise (lies).**

 **xTheMorningStarx: Same? They're such a cute family that's going to be a _lot_ bigger in the epilogue.**

 **brendarhyn: Oh my god I loved writing Jace's freak out. I was cackling and my mom came into my room like, "You okay?" and I just kind of wished I could melt into the floor because how do I explain that I'm writing fanfiction about Jace Herondale freaking out over his wife's water breaking? And more importantly, how do I explain my search history of pregnancy symptoms and baby name websites?**

 **Page1of365: I actually first wrote the twins' birth from Jace's POV, but half way through I found it hard, because I don't typically write from Jace's POV, and I was just starting to repeat the same things. I found when I rewrote it in Clary's POV I liked it better, even if it was probably corny. And thank you!**

 **WilliamTheGirl: PTERODACTYL SCREAMS BACK AT YOU, WILL.**

 **xxVerdandixx: They're a really cute family, trust me on this one.**

 **LunaNight9: OH MY GOD I JUST REALIZED I FORGOT THE NAMES I THOUGHT I SAID THEM IN THE LAST CHAPTER.**

 **Mortaloriginalvampire: Unfortunately, yeah, and I might just go bawl my eyes out.**

 **I'm A Writing Dreamer: Panicked Jace in scrubs is a visual we can all enjoy. And you're not the only one who cried about Alec. Oh my sweet BABY JESUS I JUST KILLED MYSELF LAUGHING AT THAT. YES, JONATHAN, WORRY ABOUT YOUR BEAUTY SLEEP WHILE YOUR BABY SISTER PUSHES HUMANS OUT OF HER. YEP, TOTALLY THE APPROPRIATE RESPONSE.**

 **ThatOneLife: You're honestly too sweet, what did I do to deserve this?**

 **gabergirl: oh no, you didn't forget, it was mentioned literally in _one_ sentence in this entire book that Alec eloped with his boyfriend (ahem, Magnus), but it'll be much more touched down upon in Paradox, because Izzy is still suffering her brother's abandonment and such. **

**Yumna98: Wow, my math skills. All I remember is being really tired when I posted the last chapter and being very confused about the amount of time it'd been since they'd seen each other. But I'm glad you liked the last chapter, and I hope this one was up to standard. :))**

 **Laurinis: Oh I've read far too much TMI fanfiction for it to be healthy, and Jace and Clary are sickeningly cute in every last one of them.**

 **Ads S: IT'S BEEN TOO LONG AND WE HAVE MUCH TO DISCUSS. FOR INSTANCE,**

 **A COURT OF WINGS AND RUIN. ACOWAR.**

 **AND JACE FREAKING OUT IS EVERYTHING I ASPIRE TO HAVE IN A RELATIONSHIP, HONESTLY. LIKE YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND BUT YOU DO.**

 **I READ ALL THOSE THEORIES, BUT HAVE HOWEVER NOT HAD TIME TO FINISH EOS DESPITE IT BEING OUT SINCE SEPTEMBER (MY COPY GOT HERE REALLY LATE, LIKE EARLY OCTOBER AND I HAD NO TIME TO READ IT AND NOW I GOTTA READ TALES FROM THE SHADWOHUTNER ACADEMY. I GOTTA.)**

 **Fun fact: did you know I had something completely different written for the Alec/Izzy reunion this chapter where Alec left and Izzy was heartbroken, but I saw your comment and changed it because thAT'S WHAT THESE CHARACTERS DESERVE GODDAMNIT THEY'VE BEEN THROUGH TOO MUCH ALREADY. ESPECIALLY IZZY, MY BABY. Oh, and that headcanon for my story, about Jon and Alec, just broke my goddamn heart Ads, I hate you (no I don't ily babe).**

* * *

 **Are you all ready for me to break you with the epilogue? Because this is the last time I'll ever be able to do it for Fading.**


	23. Epilogue

**So this is long overdue. And very short. I just...didn't have it in me. Maybe I'll add to it, but I just wanted to get _something_ up finally. Anyways, as always, enjoy!**

* * *

"Dadda!" Ally reaches for Jace with a shout, coercing Alec to glance up from his colouring book covered from top to bottom in scribbles—one of which sort of resembles the letters I've been trying to teach him.

Jace chuckles, positively beaming down at our little girl before swooping low and grabbing her up into the circle of his arms. Her hands go straight for his tawny curls, twisting and tugging until her hands are tangled and Jace has to pull them out for her.

"When's your brother supposed to get here?" He asks me, his soft bouncing transitioning to gentle swaying as Ally lays her head down on his shoulder, stuffing her soother into her mouth. I guess I should lay them down for a bit until Jon decides to show up.

He's supposed to bring Luce and Patch by for a play date while Jace and Izzy meet with the record label—Jace's been working on a plethora of new songs, all that's left to do is decide which ones to put onto the album and which to not, then publicity and a bunch of stuff Jace has explained to me on multiple occasions but I can't remember for the life of me.

"He was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago, but I'm gonna go out on a limb and say he can't get the car seats buckled right." It's happened before, and the way he had those poor kids buckled in—I'm surprised they ever came out again.

My husband laughs again. "Oh god, I remember—do you remember how much Izzy freaked out? And Luce was just sitting there laughing…"

"How could I forget?" I raise a brow.

* * *

The house feels warm when I walk in. Not just warm- _warm_ from the weather, warm like welcoming and affection and _love_. From the mural covering one wall, to the pictures beginning to crowd the other walls, and the untidy shoes on the floor; it is my home. It's _our_ home.

"Jace?" I call out the front door, setting down my bag on the floor. "It looks like you're having a little bit of a hard time."

"I am not!" He shouts back, despite the fact that I can _see_ him struggling to walk under the weight of ten bags filled with groceries. I mouth the word _okay_ to myself, shrugging a little and glancing down contentedly at my shining ring finger, the gold catching the early morning sun seeping in through the uncovered windows, the diamond casting a strange pattern on my mural.

I head to the kitchen, but before I can even take three steps, Jon comes running out, nearly slipping on the polished floors in his socks, pulled up high over his jogging pants. I raise my eyebrows curiously at him and his distraught, crimson complexion. Dumping my keys onto the island—the jingling noise muted amongst Isabelle's cackles of laughter in the next room and Jace's groans of frustration from outside—I go to open my mouth but before I get a chance to utter a syllable—

"I THOUGHT _MY_ KIDS WERE SATAN'S OFFSPRING!" He makes some spastic gestures with his arms before settling for kind of crossing them across his chest and leaning against the island, his chest is rising and falling like he's been the one doing any of the actual work (that was likely all Isabelle).

" _Satan's offspring_?"

"Tiny satans, yes. Its days like these that remind me why, exactly, we named her Lucifer."

"That poor girl, she's always going to be haunted by the knowledge that her parents hated her enough to name her Lucifer," I frown a little, thinking of the white-haired, black-eyed girl. "At least Patch is named after an extremely hot and not to mention _killer_ character." I don't think he catches the pun. What a disappointment Jonathan can be sometimes.

"He's just as bad!" Jon throws his arms skywards, cheeks painted a new shade of red. "He should have been Lucifer Number Two! And don't get me started on your terrible two—"

"They're seven, Jonathan."

"I don't care if they're six, they are all evil. Who thought letting you and Jace reproduce was a good idea?"

"For God's sake Jonathan—"

"Mommy!" Ally comes bounding out from the living room, her golden little ponytail bouncing and swaying. I almost laugh when I see the marker scribbles covering her legs. "Alec coloured on me again!"

I laugh softly, crouching down, the two of them barreling into me with the force of a hurricane. And they are a hurricane; they ripped right through and when the dust settled, the whole world was different. I feel the softness of Alec's strawberry-blond curls against my shoulder. And then I feel myself falling to the floor as Luce drives into me with all the force of a pickup truck. For being seven years-old and looking so tiny, that girl is strong. Like _Isabelle strong_. It's a little freaky, if I'm going to be honest with myself. I mean, seriously, she's _seven_.

Jace grins down at me, grabbing my hands and pulling me to my feet, pecking me on my lips. He tastes like spearmint and root beer, and he smells like my coconut water soap and his cologne that I breathe in headily…and if I'm not mistaken, there's the scent of baby powder on his shirt. I look down at my feet, where Alec meets my eyes, and I'm blown away a little.

It's like looking into Jace's eyes, I'm totally mesmerized. Mesmerized by the fact that this little boy in front of me is _part of me_ , by the fact that there are two little humans running around the Earth that are a _part of me_ , little pieces of me. And it's funny, really, because at twenty-two, I was scared of being forgotten, of not leaving anything behind, of being overshadowed by who my husband was becoming. And now at thirty-four, I know my legacy is going to be much greater than my paintings hanging in art galleries, on the walls of our home.


End file.
